


Perfection Of A Kind

by fadeverb



Series: Leo [28]
Category: In Nomine
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-21
Updated: 2014-01-06
Packaged: 2017-12-30 02:42:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 38
Words: 127,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1013095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fadeverb/pseuds/fadeverb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The reward for a job well done is another job. This time, the Marquis is handing out assignments.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which A Demon's Work Is Never Done

There are days I wish the Boss would give me his attunement for Impudites, and today's one of them. The crowd waiting for the next train in this subway station's packed in tight, shoulder to backpack to briefcase to pointy elbow, and if I could slip between these people as easily as my partner can, I'd have already lost the angel on my tail. As it is, I'm trying to push my way up towards where the doors will open and keep an eye on the woman three steps behind me. (Malakite, Ofanite, Elohite... Almost certainly not Seraph, and damage didn't cause disturbance so probably not Kyriotate, but I hate not being able to tell. I can't plan well if I can't tell who's chasing me.) She's better at shoving but trying harder not to attract attention, which is the only reason I'm still ahead of her.

It's a constant temptation to pull out my favorite Song and vanish right in front of her. Just let her try to find me in this crowd when she can't _see_ me. But point the first, it's bad form to do that with people watching, even if no one is looking directly at me and they all might believe a sudden disappearing figure is nothing but a blink-and-she-moved moment, or their own mind playing tricks on them; and point the second, I'm not sure that would work, because this angel has sharp eyes. She's trailed me all the way here, and even if my partner pulled _her_ partner away, I have not been able to slip her yet.

I catch sight of a police officer talking to angry man; the officer's face is nothing but polite boredom, her jaw set and eyes fixed, while the man makes repeated stabbing motions with one finger that suggest whatever just happened, he's feeling violent about it. Or as if someone else should be on his behalf. Dodge around a weary parent with stroller, and I'm heading towards the officer. Which is enough to give the angel just a _moment_ of pause, because involving the mortal authorities was not something she meant to do. Not given what we were all up to when she and her partner decided to interrupt a perfectly standard Theft job.

"Excuse me." I duck around the man's jabbing finger, and flash a quick smile at him that startles him into silence for a second so that I can address the cop instead. "You see that woman back there? Gray overcoat, with the glasses? Sort of an ex-girlfriend, sort of a stalker, I don't actually have a restraining order out yet but if you could let her know I'm _not interested_ that would be great."

"We don't really do that sort of thing, ma'am," the cop says wearily, but she looks at the angel while she says it.

"Worth asking," I say, with a smile and a shrug, and I slip past cop-and-angry-man to head for the incoming train and its opening doors.

Now, that police officer has no reason to stop the angel for me. And I don't have the sort of resonance that could convince her to do otherwise. But does the angel know that? No. All _she_ knows is that I had a quick conversation she couldn't hear with a cop who turned and _looked at her_ , and then I left looking satisfied with myself. Which means she's now watching the cop, and looking worried about it, which makes that mortal suspicious because when someone suddenly looks really worried around the police it often means something, and, well.

The doors are open, the crowd's flooding out, and sometimes this cute little vessel is useful, because I can be one of those rude assholes who tries to get inside early against the flow and get away with it, picking up only a few insults and glares on the way.

I don't take up much space inside. And when I'm tucked into a corner with people's backs to me, I hum up that Song, and slip right back out of the car while the angel's pressing her way inside.

The doors close between us, and I head for a restroom to let this Song wear off somewhere private. The Boss, along with many other people, frowns on blatant displays of inhuman ability in front of the mortals. Makes them suspicious.

Some eight minutes or so later, I exit the bathroom and go looking for a decent place to kill some time waiting for Zhune to catch up. My preference would be to stop by Ash's place and talk books until my partner's done shaking (or disassembling) his half of the angelic duo, but it's never a good idea to put that particular Lilim and Djinn together in the same room. For someone with dozens of old friends scattered across the country, Zhune is amazingly bad at playing nice with a perfectly amiable Free Lilim who likes Theft outright.

Sure, I know why that's so. But it doesn't bear dwelling on.

I don't know this city well enough to navigate it well. Nor any city, really, not anymore. We hit places and move on, as is downright mandatory for Theft, and that means I spend a lot of time consulting maps and not a lot of time acquiring favorite bars or bookstores or...whatever else someone might have a favorite of, when they get to live in one place for long. I had some of those sorts of places back in my first Role.

It was nice. It's not relevant now.

The library just outside the station turns out to be closed--no surprise at this time of morning--so I pull my hat down further over my ears, and trudge through the freezing drizzle to the park next door. Even under the gray sky, and with all the trees down to their last few bedraggled brown leaves, it's a decent place to look at and wander through. The lack of crowds is a nice change of pace, and who the hell would think to look for me here?

I end up staring at the Gertrude Stein statue, and trying to remember if I've read anything she wrote. Probably should've at some point in a rounded liberal arts education, but I was an architecture major, and only took lit classes to fill requirements and spare gaps in my schedule. If the library opens before Zhune catches up with me, I can swing through and figure out if any of her titles sound familiar. There were a few books back in college that never really stuck with me for some reason. Though by and large, most did. Every book was like being dropped into the head of someone in a way I don't think even angelic resonances could match. A weird sense of being inside someone else's life, and seeing it from _their_ perspective for the first time. Wanting something to happen or not happen or happen in a particular way for the sake of someone who wasn't me, and someone who didn't even exist.

In retrospect, I can probably blame a lot of my empathy issues--which I maintain are a serious character flaw in a demon--on those literature courses. But with all those demons who read books and don't pick up any such flaws, maybe it's really just me.

And somehow, standing in the rain contemplating my own personal failings seems like the right thing to do right now. This isn't a bad place for it. Gertrude Stein doesn't look all that happy either, in the statue. More like she's contemplating some aspect of life where she's finally realized it's too late to change anything about the matter, and all she can do is resign herself to it being a part of her past that will always define her future.

Zhune shows up five minutes before the library's supposed to open, carrying a black umbrella. He steps in close enough to hold it over both of us, and says, "You're soaking."

"I noticed. What happened to your tail?"

He shrugs, which probably means an angel has been flung into Trauma somewhere in his wake. He'd mention it if we needed to keep watching. "Yours?"

"Ditched her on the subway. Any loose ends for the job?"

"Nothing of importance," he says, and when he starts walking, I end up hurrying to stick close to his side just to avoid more damp. I pull off my soaked hat, and leave that hanging on the nose of a lion.

"So," I say, when three blocks later he hasn't followed up with any other comment, and I'm starting to get a little weirded out, "what next? Because if we have some time available before the next job, I was thinking--"

"Got a call," he says.

I know this song. _You could've mentioned that_ gets an _And now I have_ and then we both end up irritated, because why can't he just tell me these things immediately? And why can't I just trust him to arrange both our schedules, without trying to make my own plans in the middle?

So this time around, I nod, and shove my hands deeper in the pockets of my hoodie, which is about two days from falling apart at the seams. It's not warm enough for this weather anyway. "Enough time for any stops on the way?"

"No," Zhune says. "We're finally getting paid for that job."

Which is not very precise. But there aren't a lot of gigs we've taken where we were promised payment and didn't get it, and fewer still that can run this line of tension through my partner's shoulders, visible even under his no doubt stylish overcoat. (He makes everything look stylish, but I suspect he's been getting outfits tailored again.) So the Marquis is finally following through on that promise she made, when I'd long since written that off as one more instance of never getting a fair deal from demons powerful enough to screw us over.

I don't trust it. Don't think Zhune does, either.

"Where?" I ask, after we've trudged through three more blocks of rain without any further communication. If we're not going to steal a car, we could at least hail a cab. Take the subway. Find a Starbucks, even, where the rain wouldn't keep splashing up from the sidewalk and soaking me up to the knees.

"Boise."

"You are fucking kidding me." I try to remember if we've ever even done a job there. Hell, I can't even remember what sorts of Tethers the place has, though I've run through enough Tethers over the last few years that only the really exciting ones tend to stick out in my mind. "When?"

"This evening."

I run through the map in my head. "There is no possible way we can make it there in time. Not unless we work out something finicky with Tether-hopping, and even then I don't think--"

"We're flying, Leah."

I'd rather he not use that name for me when no one in particular is listening in, even if I'm wearing the vessel it tends to attach to. But it's not worth arguing about right now when there's something so much more interesting to argue about. "I don't have ID that'll get me through airport security on a last minute ticket, and if you think I'm going to sit in a plane for that long--"

"If you would like to tell the Marquis," Zhune says pleasantly, "that we couldn't make it to this appointment because you _don't like airports_ , be my guest. Or if you want to tell me that you can't find a way to get both of us on a plane heading in the right direction before noon--"

"That's trivial," I say. "Assuming you're willing to break off the connection from that watchman."

There's a whisper of Essence shaking the Symphony around us as my partner snaps the bond cleanly and safely. Because this is so not the time to not _quite_ break it and have to deal with any resulting dissonance. Or worse. I've never yet seen an attunement rebound on my partner and send him obsessive over some random human, but the possibility is enough to make us careful. I suspect the sheer embarrassment would make him nastier afterwards than any actual fallout from the inconvenient attachment.

"So now you tag the right employee and they shortcut us through security and get us seats. Great. Problem solved. Except for the part where they lock us in a metal tube and shoot us into the air for a while." I lean in nearer to Zhune's side as the wind sprays rain against me. "Boise. Really?"


	2. In Which I Would Have Preferred Cash, Or Maybe A Toaster Oven

Blame Vapula. The invention of flight post-dates his arrival on the scene, and given the opinion Lightning seems to have of humanity, I can't imagine that Archangel looking down at the Wright brothers and saying, "Yes, now is a fine time to show humans how to fling themselves through the air in little boxes. They'll probably handle the descent just fine."

I'm not sure who to blame the airports on. The TSA is clearly run by the Game--there's a reason we made sure to skip that step on the way into the terminal--but airports themselves are dreary endless corridors of noise and despair and the distant smell of burnt popcorn overlaid with cleaning fluid. Old movies will claim that airports are places for ecstatic reunions and last-minute declarations of love, but these days they'd hit you with a taser and then store you in a bright room for sixteen hours if you tried to meet up with a loved one at the gate. Everyone walking on or off a plane looks grim, tired, and harassed.

That everyone includes me and Zhune. I'm not sure which of us looks more harassed, either. If there is any degree of justice in this life (which I strongly doubt) it's him, because I bet we could've been paid on delivery months ago if he didn't have such issues with the Marquis.

"Never again," I tell him, as I drag the rolling luggage off the plane. (It's not anything interesting. We picked it up in the first airport to avoid attention for having absolutely no luggage, and somehow I got appointed the one to carry it around ever since.) "Next time we send an apologetic note and we _drive_."

"If you hadn't decided to pick up an inconvenient degree of claustrophobia--"

"I am not claustrophobic, I just don't like _planes_." I leave the suitcase parked beside a trash can and keep on walking. Someone else can deal with the bomb scare at their leisure. "And if you hadn't tried to drag me in--"

"Given the amount you'd had to drink, it seemed wise--"

"And whose idea was that, anyway?"

Zhune snorts, and stalks along so briskly I almost have to jog to keep up. Stupid short vessel with its stupid short legs. "Are you sober now?"

"Sober enough. Those tiny bottles are like some sort of insult to the very concept of alcohol." I check the pockets of my jacket, which is new, acquired from I don't know where or who, and rather too large for me. Not a single lighter to be found.

"Yes, and see if they ever let you have any _again_ , after that last flight." My Djinn can be a right asshole when he feels like it, and somehow I don't think either of us is in the best mood right now.

"I told you we should've flown business class the whole way."

"Next time, how about you acquire a convenient mortal servant, and then _you_ can make sure to pick one who can arrange everything properly?"

"Not my fault if you can't tag the right type of person," I say, and stop at the enormous glass doors separating us from the gray and drizzling evening of Boise. "It's not that hard to figure out which ones to pick if you'd pay a little attention. Did you pack an umbrella?"

"No," Zhune says. "Would you like me to go acquire one for you so that you don't get your pretty little outfit damp?"

"I know how difficult that would be for you. I wouldn't want to put you to all that trouble." I step out into the rain, and stalk towards the taxi stand. This is not ideal weather for car theft, and if we get a third person listening in on the trip to the meet-up, Zhune can only be so rude.

The same probably goes for me. Collecting payment is likely to be dangerous and complicated enough without either (or both) of us arriving there in a state of complete petty rage. And maybe my partner actually recognizes this, because he lets me pick out a cab without argument, and gives the driver the address--which he hasn't told _me_ before now, possibly to avoid the risk that I'd bolt from the first layover and try to drive there myself--then settles down in silence beside me in the back seat.

He spends the drive staring out the window and looking increasingly like a confident man well prepared to deal with anything he should happen to encounter. It's as much an act as the way I stare out the opposite window and try to repress any lingering paranoia about the meeting.

Even if I do suspect the Marquis will find some way to make the payment ironic. It seems like her style. But she's not showing up in person--there is no good reason for a Marquis to deal with people like us directly in anything but a major emergency--and that may imply a nice straightforward handover. Maybe the only shifty part of any of this is the part where she made us fly to Boise to pick up...whatever she's giving us.

Please let it be cash. We can always use cash. It's the perfect gift that everyone loves, and if we run out of things to buy we can always go pay people to do entertaining things.

The cab leaves us at a massage parlor. Neon signs flash overhead, cutting through the evening haze in pink and purple.

"Tell me," I say to Zhune, "that this is not a Lust Tether. Please."

"It's not a Tether," he says, and leads the way around the side of the building to an employee entrance. "They just own the place." He raps on the door, and glances about briefly for listeners before continuing. "Used to run workers in here for them, back with Henry. If you're bored, we can handle their next delivery."

"Not that bored yet," I say, and shut up as the door opens. Never that bored. Never will be. I do not like work that involves buying and selling people, even if they're only humans. I do not like being trapped and there's no good reason to inflict that on anyone else, either.

The woman at the door doesn't seem to recognize Zhune, but when he asks a question in a language I don't know, she's quick to open the door the rest of the way and usher us inside. There is nothing client-friendly about the employee hallway: dark, cluttered, and with a water leak staining one wall. The people who show up with the power to make demands get a different experience from the people doing all the work, and that's the story of this world, isn't it?

Up one flight of stairs, the woman who let us in directs us to an office, and hurries away. Zhune taps on the door, then pushes it open. "Esme?"

"Zhune," says the woman inside. She has a lazy smile that I don't like at all. "It's been ages. Do you have time to chat, or are you heading straight up to the meeting?"

"Depends on how long the courier's been waiting," Zhune says.

"An hour," Esme says, her gaze moving over me in a way I don't like. "She's waiting up in 306. I suppose you'd better run. Afterward? We can catch up on old times, and maybe work out some business. Your replacements just aren't as _good_ at it as you were, and counting for inflation, no cheaper."

"I was never cheap," Zhune says mildly. "This is my partner, Leah." I raise a hand in a sort of wave for the sake of being polite when on someone else's turf, which I would like to not be on as soon as is at all possible. "We should be around for a while after the meeting."

"Good. It's been too long. Let me know if you want to borrow anyone, mm? Tuesday nights aren't busy anyway." She waves us on out. I can feel her gaze on the back of my neck as we leave the office.

"Band?" I ask Zhune, as we head for the next flight of stairs. He knows the way through here just fine without any guide, and I am not going to think about the work he did with Henry. It's not what we do. We specialize in Tethers, working against other celestials, nothing involving kidnapping or coercion or dragging humans around at length.

"Habbalite," he says. "Otherwise I might've introduced you sooner. Don't get fussy about it. She won't mess with your head, seeing as you're with me and a friend of the Word." That last bit is said with a certain level of acidity that suggests I have been insufficiently friendly to Lust. Which is not true in the slightest. I don't bother them so long as they don't bother me. Some of them just aren't very competent at not bothering me.

"I'm not fussing," I point out. "You two can catch up, and I can go discover what wild night life Boise holds. I'm picturing it as some sort of nightlight in a sealed jar."

"I thought," Zhune says, pausing outside the door that must be the one we want, "that you wanted to get to know more people. Make some friends. You're never going to manage that if you keep bolting every time I introduce you to people."

"And I thought you could remember my name long enough to give it properly for an introduction," I say, "so I guess we've both been wrong about a few things tonight. Let's get this over with."

My partner looks at me steadily. There will be a _discussion_ later.

But he opens the damn door, and we step inside looking like a proper pair of Magpies--one stylish, one not giving a damn--ready to pick up payment.

I don't know what this room is usually set up for; right now it has a table with chairs dragged around it that look like they're not usually placed here, and three folding cots folded right up and shoved into a corner. It smells faintly of eucalyptus. The courier waiting for us is dressed--much like the Marquis was, actually. Business wear. Tidy. _Professional_ in a way that implies board rooms and business lunches. If this is a courier, she's one who usually does far more important work, and that's worrying me right off.

"How nice of you to finally arrive," says the courier. Her accent's something European that I can't place. She doesn't bother to indicate seats, being occupied with putting away the phone she was playing with. Or, for all I know, working on. Probably not a Calabite, then. Her vessel's almost sturdy enough to say Djinn, but Zhune said that the Marquis liked--what was it? Impudites, Lilim, and Shedim. (Which only goes to show her job offer in my direction wasn't serious. Just a way to try to harass my partner.) Between the three, I'd tentatively pick Shedite, but I couldn't say for sure.

"Turns out there are no direct flights between New York City and Boise," I say. "Who would have guessed?" I drop into a seat, and ignore the tap at my ankle from Zhune's foot. This is not the Marquis herself, and I refuse to act as if someone _might_ have a distinction and thus outrank me when there's been no warning of such.

"No matter," she says. She reaches beneath the table, and pulls out a briefcase. This is slid across the table towards Zhune. "Your half of the payment," she says. "If you find the reward inadequate, do send along your complaint to the appropriate department." When she turns away from him to look at me, it's as if he's disappeared from the room, as far as she's concerned. "The Marquis would like to hire you for a brief assignment relevant to your talents. Your payment for the previous work will be provided meanwhile, and then the payment for the new work will be matched to the quality of your work."

"What sort of assignment? I think we have prior appointments." I glance sideways at Zhune, and he's not giving me anything to work with, here. He's just gone very quiet. Come on, partner, I need some back up on this one. I don't know how to turn down a job. No one ever offers them to _me_.

"It will be explained on arrival," says the courier. She acquires a small, cold smile. "Perhaps I was unclear. It's this language, you see. It wasn't my first among the corporeal ones. Nor my second or third. This assignment is not one which you may delay for some other minor theft you had planned."

"But I don't--"

"I know," she says patiently, "that you do not typically work without your partner." She isn't bothering to look at Zhune at all. As if his reaction is entirely irrelevant to her. "However, the Marquis has already cleared this, out of consideration for delicate pre-existing arrangements. It's not often that such measures are necessary in order to hire on a single contractor of your status. She must be rather interested in your particular skills to go to such a bother. Having done so, are there any grounds on which you would like to turn down the assignment?"

It's Theft. It can't last long. I wanted some space from my partner anyway, he is always _there_ and this is a setup. A trap. One I have no way not to walk right into.

"No," I say breezily, "so long as it's all cleared. How long should this last?"

The courier shrugs one shoulder elegantly, and stands. "Less than a month, I expect. I haven't all the details myself. Let's be off, as we're already late, and with matters to attend to on the way."

"Where to?" I ask, and--I stand up, because I have to follow her, and Zhune is not _doing_ anything. He should be. Shouldn't he be objecting? Or is this one of those situations where he tells me to be quiet and do what I'm told, and then models that himself? I can't read his expression, and that's usually a bad sign, but he hasn't stood up or spoken or so much as laid a hand on the briefcase with his payment. Whatever might be inside that.

"I will explain," she says, "on the way."

When she walks out the door, I follow.

And my partner is not right behind me.


	3. In Which The Exchange Rate Is Unacceptable

I've spent weeks away from Zhune since we became partners. Not...often. But I have. Multiple weeks at once, when he was in Trauma and then doing work for the Boss up in Hell. So there was that one time, and then days apart now and again since then, and...okay. Yes. Let me be this honest with myself: it is very strange to walk away from the room where he is still sitting (and I can't believe he didn't even _say_ anything) to follow this demon to I don't know where, for doing I don't know what, and. I don't know. There's nothing wrong with this. Contracting work. A good half of our jobs are ones that either of us could pull off on our own, it's just easier with two people.

Still feels like I'm about to go do a job with only one arm attached to my vessel. He's supposed to watch my back, and vice versa. I can't trust _this_ demon to do any such thing for me.

"You may call me Zabina," says the demon in question. She has a brisk pace, and lets the door to the stairwell swing back behind her when she's gone through, so that I have to shove it out of my way in turn. Odd how I didn't much notice that Zhune would keep the doors open a second for me to walk through until I was following someone who doesn't do it. "And you are Leo, unless you prefer another name?"

I would like to only have my name, and the right one, but I may as well treat all of these questions like trick questions and tests until there's reason to think otherwise. (While I am spending some effort not wondering what the Marquis wants of me. Probably something I won't like, but I've had terrible jobs before, and I survived. Zhune would not have let me walk away like this if he thought I wouldn't survive this.) "Leah, in this vessel and if people who'd blink at the other combination are listening."

She nods shortly. She isn't bothering to look back my way as we descend the stairs, but I get the impression she's listening closely. "We'll pick up your luggage and leave immediately. There's no need to stop by the proprietor's office. Where are your things?"

"I don't have anything to pick up."

Zabina stops, and turns around to face me directly. I have to back up a step to not be nose-to-nose with her. (And two steps up, I'm not much taller than her even so. I hate how short this vessel is.) "There is no need to be...coy, Leo. We can pick up whatever you want to take with you for weeks of work. It won't be taken from you. Even in Theft, there is professional respect among those who can be professional at all."

"I don't have any luggage." I spread my hands. "What I own is what's on me."

She stares at me for a long moment, and quite unexpectedly, huffs out a sigh. "You do mean it. I thought a Djinn as old as that one would have better sense than to live like the wolf pack children, and even those usually have a bag of toys and a trunk of loot." With an elegant shrug, she turns around and continues the descent. "If nothing else, we can leave this city more quickly."

Well, that much I'm for.

#

Zabina's car is a rental, but a sleek BMW with that interior smell that comes of being relentlessly and regularly cleaned by professionals. When she starts the engine, a calm voice begins intoning something in--German, I suspect. I'm not particularly clear on languages I've never learned. She turns off the sound, and pulls out of the parking lot behind the massage parlor into the street. Rush hour's mostly cleared, and with any luck we'll have escaped Boise soon. I can't imagine what the Marquis would be doing in this city.

"The bag is for you," she says, nodding towards the space around my feet. And here I thought she was storing a snappy white shopping bag there just to be annoying. I drag it up onto my knees, and try not to be annoyed that someone else is driving. Of course the person who knows where we're going gets to drive. "That is not payment, not for your previous work--which I am told you did well--or for the upcoming work. Simply a few tools. We will have to find more for you soon."

Fortunately, there is not a bear trap in the bag. Somewhat more baffling is what it does contain: a shiny new smartphone, and a set of accessories for it. Earphones, protective case, screen protectors. "This isn't going to last long."

"It will last long enough," Zabina says, "if you take care of it properly. The case will help." She eyes me sidelong as she drives. (She drives like the posted speed limit means something.) "We will stop to get you a proper bag to put it in, which will also help. And perhaps a set of those gloves with the conductive fingertips. In this weather, gloves would be appropriate. We will also buy you proper clothing."

"I'm fine, thanks." And I am not a dress-up Calabite, no matter who's offering.

"You keep mistaking these for requests," she says. "We will buy you proper clothing, because I would be embarrassed to bring you into my employer's presence in your current state." She flicks her fingers in my direction, towards my jacket but not touching it. "That is terrible, it's the wrong color for you, it does not fit, and still that is the only thing on you that isn't falling apart. What were you thinking?"

"I was thinking that, given the nudity taboos in most parts of this country, it's easier to steal things if people don't notice me walking around naked." I slouch down in my seat, and turn on the phone. It's still shiny and functional. That won't last. But at least I can slap on the screen protector and the case, and get a password added to the thing. "Anything I put on ends up trashed anyway."

"That is what changes of clothing are for," she says sharply. "Which is why a person carries luggage with them, and does not wear the same thing for--however long you have been wearing that." Her lips press together in a tight line. "Being a Calabite is no excuse for excessive untidiness. If you take proper care, you might only destroy what you mean to, and not other random objects."

"Not in my experience." Which is probably more arguing than I should be doing, but what does she know about being a Calabite? Whatever Band she is, she's not part of _mine_.

"Leo," she says, with icy care, "you have no experience. You are a child. Whatever terrible habits your partner has taught you, you really must unlearn a few of them to complete this job...properly." Which might well mean _safely_ , from how she says it. "You can surely wear an outfit someone else assembled for you. I will find you appropriate clothing. If you will be reasonable about the matter, I will even find you appropriate clothing which you like."

"Is this job likely to depend on what I wear?"

Zabina coasts to a stop at a yellow light, and lets it turn red. Then she turns to look me directly in the eyes. "I realize," she says, "that you are unaccustomed to working without your partner, for all that he seems to leave you to complete the tasks yourself. But the Marquis believes that you are capable of doing this job, and she has gone to more trouble than I would expect to have you do it. Now. If you are so desperately concerned about what lies ahead, I will turn around and take you back to your partner. Then I will tell my employer that you would not comply with her wishes, and she should let you be until you are less startled by the concept. But if I do this, Leo, you will owe me, and the next time she decides to use your skills, you will _pay_ that debt. And there will be no additional payment for the work. And she will not be pleased."

She waits a moment, and I don't break away from her gaze because--I'm not sure there's a point in it, now.

The light turns green, and she leaves us there. At the intersection. "What would you like to do?" she asks, as the car behind us honks.

"I'm happy to accept any job the Marquis offers me," I say, and try out my sweetest Impudite smile, "despite the inconvenient dress code attached."

Zabina hits the gas, and we drive on. "Good," she says. "We were told you were clever."


	4. An Interlude, In Which My Sartorial Preferences Are Ignored

Zabina took the Destroyer to a department store, for lack of better options when working on limited time and in unfamiliar territory. A week and a tailor would have done wonders, but her employer had neither offered a week nor requested wonders. Sufficient presentability such that no one would be made uncomfortable to be seen entering the same residence would suffice. And if nothing else, the child might be taught that there were options available to a demon--even to those serving Valefor--other than ragged possession-free living. There was hardly a point in serving Theft if nothing stolen was ever kept.

"Not that," she said, when the Calabite would've veered off towards the men's clothing--and the sort aimed at disaffected college students, which was even worse. "Do remember your...body image."

"I could hardly forget," Leo muttered.

She did not let irritation show, because she was increasingly certain that this entire problem, this affectation of adolescence and disorder, was not the child's fault. The Destroyer had held a Role before, one of both adult and professional aspects, and according to what limited data she'd been given before the trip, the child had done so _successfully_. So this was not the petulance of the young. This was the petulance of someone who had been re-educated when moved to another Word, and done so poorly.

This did not make the situation any less irritating, but it was an error of long-term planning to direct one's response to problems towards their symptoms, and not toward the actual disease.

"Undergarments," she said. "What sizes do you wear?"

"I don't."

Zabina had rather hoped that was simply a temporary matter, and not a habit. "People notice," she said. "This may be appropriate behavior for when you want to distract someone from what your partner is doing behind their back, but it is not appropriate for this job."

With their respective vessels, they could barely pass for mother and daughter. Adopted daughter, perhaps. Zabina slipped into the role and adjusted her response to the fussing accordingly. She even received sympathetic glances from the women who helped her drag the Calabite--a metaphorical sort of dragging, as physical force was always a final resort, a sign that plans had gone entirely awry or been laid improperly to begin with--through fitting, selection, the acquisition of a stack of bras and panties that would be _suitable_ to what was expected of a contractor. She paid little attention to the substance of the complaints and muttering. More attention was required for the way the child moved. Shied away from certain types of innocuous, professional touch.

Re-education was always more difficult than education. But it was the opinion of her employer that the organization was better served by recruiting from those who had learned there were far worse alternatives, rather than attempting to rely on those who had only been told so. And it was not her responsibility to teach the child better manners, fashion, speech, comportment. That had never been her talent. She only needed to show the Calabite that other options existed, and those with the appropriate training could build on that foundation.

And on the matter of foundations, she could finally begin building the child a few outfits. Best to start with something simple and unobjectionable, the sort of arrangement with several nearly identical pieces that could be swapped around, rather than try for anything complicated and then discover how far wrong Leo could get it out of unfamiliarity or spite. She directed her temporary charge over to the appropriate section of the department store for skirts, and watched the child balk outright.

"No," Leo said. "It's--not even the right weather for that sort of thing."

"That's what tights are for," Zabina said, "and climate controlled buildings. We aren't about to send you out to work all night in the rain."

"No," Leo said. "No fucking skirts. I can't even run properly in them and they imply--" She made an angry, choppy gesture with one hand. "You're not wearing a skirt. Clearly it's not mandatory."

"I don't have your appearance," Zabina said, and considered her options. "Not in age or coloring or build. However, you are correct. Skirts are not mandatory, merely preferable. Will you accept jeans?"

"Yes, _please_ ," the Calabite said, arms crossed and her body built out of tension even after the concession, as if--ah. Now that was a particular reaction she was well accustomed to.

"I don't lay hooks on fellow employees," she said. "It's impolite, and not conducive to a professional work atmosphere. That goes for contractors as well. If I mean to charge you for anything, Leo, I will surely let you know. This is still a matter of business."

She picked out a few sizes of appropriate jeans--dark wash, bootcut, the sturdiest available in the women's section--and took Leo into a changing room, made sure these were put on with appropriate undergarments. (It was not longer a surprise to find the Calabite did not know her own clothing sizes.) Then a set of blouses, long-sleeved for the weather, in a thick fabric that even a ragged, feral Destroyer ought to appreciate: cotton and cashmere, the sort of thing Zabina would wear herself, if not exactly that cut. Leo even put on the first one offered, the cream color to be alternated in the future with the purple and dark turquoise, without significant resistance. In stages, the child was beginning to look like someone who had not been abandoned in an alleyway as a gremlin and raised by feral cats.

They had to leave the department store and brave the mall to find a proper jacket for the child. One would suffice, there, and so Zabina selected one in brown leather that would tolerate months of constant wear, even from a Calabite, with proper layers beneath. And then when they moved to a shoe store to find matching boots, that turned into an entire new argument. An inch of heel and simple ankle boots, nothing complicated or fussy, still had the Destroyer fussing as if she were being compelled to run in stilettos or brave the rain in summer sandals.

In the spirit of compromise, and not being stuck in the mall until all the stores closed and they were reduced to pilfering from the dark shelves, she bought Leo a pair of running shoes as well. (Running, like violence, was usually a sign that something had gone awry, but it only stood to reason that the Calabite would expect that sort of disaster, given her current partner and his tendencies.) Those were stowed away in the small suitcase she bought the child, along with the extra sets of every piece of clothing bought.

"Are we done," asked the Calabite, an edge of desperation in her voice, "or is there more?"

"Almost," Zabina said. "You need accessories."

Leo tapped the single silver ring that pierced the rim of her ear. "Done."

Zabina kept her sigh internal, and directed the Calabite through another store. A pair of scarves, the red-brown one applied immediately. A tweed newsboy cap, its replacement added to the luggage. A messenger bag to hold the phone at a safer distance, in a darker leather than the jacket.

She did not even suggest cosmetics. Some fights were not worth having.

A handful of travel-sized toiletries would have been a good way to complete the contents of the rolling suitcase, but Zabina did not want to delay any longer. Besides, the Impudites would have plenty to loan out. Proper earrings would not have gone amiss, either, but for all that a jewelry store in the mall offered appropriate garnets, she suspected taking the child to an ear-piercing location would have caused more fuss than it was worth. To the Calabite's credit, she was at last leaving off the complaints about the arrangement.

Most of them.

"I look ridiculous," Leo muttered, hands shoved into the pockets of her jacket.

"You look," Zabina said, "as if you have not been sleeping on the street or in a car, and might be able to hold down a job in an office if one were offered to you. You also look more attractive than before in this manner, which is useful for acquiring pleasant and helpful reactions from people you need to interact with." She reached out to adjust the cap on Leo's head. Yes, that angle worked better. "Previously, you looked attractive in a manner that suggested you were in desperate need of assistance and protection, and willing to accept any offered on terms that would not be in your favor. That is not the sort of attention you should attract accidentally. Only when you have a use for the sort of people who make those offers."

"I think I can handle myself when it comes to that," the Calabite said, and was, by her voice, ready to take on exactly such an offer, in a suitably bloody manner.

Which was part of the problem right there. For all that the Marquis was a Calabite, that her partner had been so, Chaixin did not typically employee them. The Band of the Broken who left havoc in their wake needed such a careful blend of self-control and direction and cleverness to be anything other than tools, and so seldom received the sort of rearing that would encourage them towards those more useful abilities.

"Good," Zabina said, and did not let her pleasure at the child's startled expression show. "This project needs more people who are able to provide some kind of defense if it should come to that, though I don't expect it will. Is there anything else you want before we continue?"

"I thought we were in a hurry."

"We are," Zabina said, disappointed to find that yet again the Needs she plucked from Leo's eyes were of no great relevance. "However, I allowed more time than we've used. We have eight hours of driving to go, and only so much work to do during the drive. Is there anything you'd care to bring along?" She checked the time on her phone, as the Calabite hesitated. "Twenty minutes."

She followed Leo to a bookstore, and paid for the two books picked out there, ignoring the third and fourth tucked into the messenger bag. Minor theft always seemed too small for service to their Word. Like a demon of Death amusing itself in killing ants. But petty acts of Word service were appropriate for young, feral creatures who perhaps did not feel entirely certain of their place in an organization.

Perhaps all the Calabite needed was a level of certainty. To move from one Word to another could unsettle anyone, much less to do so twice in the span of a few years. And thus she led the child back to the car, and considered how best to provide some type of stability.

"It is understandable," she said, once they had reached the interstate, "to be concerned about working directly for a Marquis. However, you will find she is not an unreasonable employer."

"I'm sure," Leo said, in a tone of such careful neutrality that the complete lack of belief shone through.

"Perhaps you have never had a reasonable employer before," Zabina said. "Many of the people in our organization had not, before they came to us. There is nothing complicated about working for Chaixin. Complete the assignments you're given to the best of your abilities. Don't harass other employees unduly." She shrugged, keeping a sidelong eye on how the girl responded. With face pointed away towards a window, which was no good sign. "I suppose there's little reason to explain when you'll see it on your own."

"I suppose not," Leo said. The agreement was in its own way as much a sign of trouble as the earlier disagreement had been. Still, a polite mask of agreement over resentment would ease the introduction to the project group better than honestly expressed resentment would have.

Zabina tapped a fingernail on the steering wheel, and considered. "What Songs do you know?"

"Not many," Leo said, which was exactly the answer likely to be given by someone expecting every piece of information released to be used against them.

"Do you know Celestial Tongues?" She got only a wary head shake in response. "Then I will begin teaching you. It's one of the more useful Songs in an emergency, and everyone else in the project knows it."

"Is that part of the payment," Leo asked, "or do I get charged separately?"

"It's a tool," Zabina said. "Like the phone, or the clothing. The Marquis does not believe in sending employees out on work without proper equipment, and--even contractors should be afforded the same courtesy."

"This time," Leo said quietly.

"The previous assignment was handled..." Oh, she could not say _poorly_ , though she had been surprised to hear some of the details of that matter. "...in an atypical manner. On account of the rush. Now that there is more time available, we are compensating accordingly. I will teach you this Song because it is useful to your work, and thus the Marquis would expect me to give you proper equipment. Do you object to being taught?"

"No," Leo said, "I only--" She hesitated over her words in turn, which was a good sign. Let the child only begin to _think_ before acting instead of constantly reacting, and they might get to a useful place. "Wasn't expecting the offer," she concluded. "Do we have time for me to get it down before we arrive?"

"It depends on how quickly you learn," Zabina said, and took her attention from the road enough to watch the subtleties of the girl's expression. Ah. The sense of _challenge_. A desire to prove oneself. That was as good as hook, for pushing someone in a useful direction. "I'll demonstrate the complete version of the Song first, and then we will work through it in parts. Tell me when you are ready."

"Ready," Leo said, and curled one knee up to her chest. Her attention on Zabina. Yes, that would suffice for a beginning.


	5. In Which The Catch Is Not Always Immediately Apparent

When we reach the parking garage, it's coming up on five in the morning, and my throat hurts. The Lilim kept me working on the Song for most of the trip, until she was satisfied that we could swap an Essence back and forth if I spent five minutes building up to the process. In an actual emergency, I'm still going to be shoving more Essence into making the Song work than anything I'm sending along with the message.

She allowed occasional pauses, and stopped once to pick up bottles of water. At least I wasn't expected to provide conversation during the breaks. She had her economics podcasts for that, in what I am almost certain was German.

It was, all told, not the worst car trip I've ever taken. Not by a long shot. But the anticipation is making me itchy, and the new clothes are--not uncomfortable, though I don't like the way the shoes tilt me around. Just. It doesn't feel right. This isn't the sort of thing I wear, the jacket aside, and I look even more like someone who isn't me than usual. Maybe I should be _for_ that, in terms of passing beneath the radar. But it's not me. This body isn't me, whatever gets put on it, so I probably shouldn't care about the difference, but I can't _stop_ caring.

Life would be a lot easier if I could not care about things just by deciding to. I think that's a skill that the older demons have, but I haven't figured out yet if this is something we all learn if we live that long, or if only the demons who have learned this make it to any advanced age.

Zabina takes us up to the thirteenth floor, which some people would take as a sign. Me, I just appreciate that the people who put this building together labeled the floors properly. Human superstitions are pointless enough without catering to them in the architecture.

The hallway's narrow and dark in a way that speaks of a building put together a long time ago and only partially remodeled, rather than some cheap new block of condos slapped together last year and painted the latest colors. The faint creak of a floorboard under the worn carpeting reminds me of--nowhere important, really. The Lilim flicks a gesture toward one of the doors in the hallway. "Chaixin's office. She'll call when she wants to see you." She taps twice on the door across the hall. "This is ours. Small for five, but needs must."

If this five includes Soldiers, I'm going to be climbing the walls within the day. Hellsworn are usually even less fun to spend time with than other demons. Whiny, defensive, snotty humans who know too much and have few redeeming qualities. I'll take a cheerfully unAware human over one of those any day.

Zabina taps again, and while her expression remains steady, after eight hours in the car with her I'm pretty good at picking up on when she's getting annoyed. Which she is.

The door pops open, and the woman standing there flashes us an Impudite smile. (Or there's an outside chance of another Lilim, but no Hellsworn responds to an annoyed demon this way, and I don't think this is a Shedite.) If I'm dressed for some sort of professional work that allows for jeans, she's dressed for the club, with a sparkling top cut lower than Zabina would let me get away with (or that I would ever want to wear) and glossy black pants that look to have been painted on. "Hel _lo_ ," she chirps, and slides back a few feet, moving to the rhythm of whatever's playing in the earbud she has in one ear. "Come on in, already, you know the door wasn't even _locked_."

I can almost hear the Lilim's teeth grinding. But she walks briskly inside, and I follow along like a good little Calabite who just wants to get the job done and play nicely with coworkers. "Where are the others?" Zabina asks, gaze passing over the wide open central room. There are two couches facing each other over a glass coffee table, and an obligatory throw rug. The decor reminds me of the sort of thing Ash likes, though this place is larger than his even before whatever other rooms might be shut behind other doors. Judging by the exterior of the building and those windows, this used to be two apartments, and someone removed walls to move the entire place seriously upscale. I haven't enough of a sense for the layout of this city to know how close we are to the price-gouging center.

"Trey and Gee are out on a grocery run," says the probably-Impudite, shrugging one shoulder. She wanders towards the fridge, feet sliding back and forth in socks across the tiles of the kitchen. "I told them not to wait up, since there was no knowing when you'd arrive. I'm out fifty bucks, since you made it before dawn." She pops open the fridge, and pulls out two bottles. "And you must be Leo!" When she tosses the bottle my way, I catch it more out of reflex than anything else, and that gets a sharp smile from her. That's the Theft, under all the surface levels of Charmer. "Call me Julie, that's what I go by in this country since I hate hearing people butcher my Role's name."

"Julie is the most senior of the rest of those on this project," Zabina tells me. That is, I suspect, extremely precise phrasing on her part. "Which she has seen fit to send out alone in the middle of the night while she was...clubbing, I gather?"

I look attentive and uncommitted in this power struggle, and resonate the bottle cap open on my beer. The label isn't familiar, which is often a good sign. 

"They need to get a feel for the place," Julie says, and pulls herself up to sit on the counter while she twists the cap off her own bottle. "As do I. We can't do effective work if we don't know the local culture. Besides, the kid needs some time out and about. Sifting through human heads, finding out what it's like. He keeps picking the wrong sorts of hosts. Want anything to drink?"

Zabina waves the offer away sharply. "Do you know when they will be back, or should we begin laying bets on that as well?"

"Before dawn," Julie says. She drums a heel against a cupboard door, and swaps her attention to me. "If you don't like that kind of beer, tell Trey, and he'll pick up a different one next time he's out. No reason not to have what we want since it's available, right? And, oh, let me show you the bedroom where you can stow your stuff. There are two, so you're in with Trey and Gee." She drops onto the floor, and spins around on one foot. Which reminds me, just for an instant, of a particular Ofanite who I very briefly knew. "Do you need a garage tag for a car or anything like that?"

"Nothing like that," I say, and drag the suitcase along after her. I can shove it away into that room and never look at it again.

"Do you even know where they went?" Zabina asks Julie's back.

"Some grocery store, they will be _fine_. This isn't San Francisco." The Impudite throws a smile back at her coworker, bright and friendly. "Oh, and Chaixin said to stop by whenever you got back in. Don't worry, I'll get Leo here settled in."

I know what I would have said to that delivery of that information. But the Lilim only arches one perfect eyebrow, and gives me a perfunctory nod of farewell before she walks away.

"And to think," Julie says, when the door to the apartment has closed again, "Lilim are supposed to be good with people." She takes the handle of my suitcase, which I am more than happy to give up, and leads me through one of the doors. The bedroom inside is small, taken up mostly by one rumpled bed and a dresser surrounded by suitcases. "Since no one needs to sleep, it's mostly a place to park your stuff. The bed's free if you want to get laid, but check in with someone--well, anyone but Gee, he doesn't know much yet--before bringing home any humans, okay? Or just ask Gee to bring them in for you, since he could use the practice. Don't take anyone's personal stuff, replaceable stuff like socks and cash are fair game." She parks my suitcase by the others, then spins around to spread her arms wide. "The basic rules of getting along with other people in a cramped space. I know, it's _terrible_ in here, but it's not worth clearing more than two apartments for a temp project like this."

I drop my bag on top of the dresser. It almost looks like people live here, if the sort of people who live out of suitcases. As opposed to me, who lives out of his pockets or nothing at all. "Simple enough."

"I thought so. How's the beer?"

I take a swig, because I am almost certain none of these people care enough about me to set up a capped beer with drugs that'll knock me silly. They can do nearly anything to me, because I am entirely isolated from any sort of protection here, so why should they bother with complicated setups? Yes, I will be on my best behavior. Whatever that is these days. "Not bad," I say, which is actually the truth. "Who else should I be expecting?"

"Trey's another Impudite. He keeps people topped up on Essence, and does a lot of the footwork. Gee's a newbie, and I think you've met him? Shedite, not the _best_ manners yet, terrible taste in hosts, but we're working on that." She shrugs, the light of the lamp on the dresser rippling across the glitter of her shirt with the movement. "In theory Gee's doing secretary work for the Marquis, but we're all trying to teach him the basics while he's here. He can't live in her pocket _forever_ , that's no use. But he's got a ways to go. The poor kid was raised by wolves. Well, by Factions, which is even worse."

The Marquis, two Impudites, a Lilim, and a Shedite. And me. If having an actual Marquis watching over the project in person weren't enough to make me edgy, those numbers would've done the trick. I can't remember the last time I got involved with any project that included that many demons at once, at least on the same side. (Zhune and me hitting a Tether staffed by four demons doesn't count.) What this means--I don't know. Not enough information to theorize in any kind of useful manner. But it makes me wonder, even as this Impudite is putting all the talents of her Band towards making me feel comfortable.

Which implies they are not intending to fuck with my head right off. Either I'm not important enough to bother, or they want to get some decent work out of me first, or they're saving up for later. So be it.

"I remember him," I say, after a long gulp of beer. "From that job." The shifty little Shedite trying to get into my pants the instant Zhune wasn't looking, and it was lucky my partner _didn't_ witness that. Usually Zhune just finds it amusing when other demons try to rub up against this vessel, so long as they don't succeed, but he was in no mood for smug tolerance that day. "Speaking of which, what's this one?"

"Complicated," Julie says promptly. She wanders back out of the room, and I follow because she's still talking to me. "And most of it no one will explain to you, no offense intended, because you're contracting. If it makes you feel any better, none of us have the whole project in our heads either. Safer that way, if we run into trouble."

"The Seraph kind of trouble?"

She nods, and takes up half of one couch, feet tucked under her. Enough space for me to take the other end, and I think I'm expected to join her there, but I sit down on the facing couch instead. "Or the accidental slip-up kind of trouble, or the kind of trouble where some other demon convinces you that you should totally fill him in on all the details of why you were poking around the company he works for. I don't know if Balseraphs or Habbalah are worse, for that. Go ahead and take off your shoes if you want, Zabina throws _fits_ if you put them on the furniture."

"I know the type," I say. Though I'm pretty sure the last person I knew like that was a Cherub. I get the damn boots off and half shoved under the couch, where I might be able to pretend I can't find them the next time I'm heading outside. "What's her specialty here?"

"When she's not hooking people? Finance. She digs through numbers and boring things like that." Julie has the one-shouldered shrug down, graceful and well practiced. It's probably best to assume that anything an Impudite does that looks good on them is deliberate and practiced. "I do tech, Trey's mostly the social networking side, Gee's learning on the job. Besides, it's handy to be able to walk a human around and dig through their brain periodically. No one can afford to staff their project entirely with celestials, unless it's some tiny thing no one much cares about."

This is the point where I want to ask what _my_ job is here. It can't possibly be thug work, because if they wanted a bruiser they'd have brought in Zhune instead. It would annoy him even more to be separated from that direction, if he had to run around working for the Marquis up close and personal. But if she's not offering--it's safer not to ask. Questions come in two flavors, and I am not in a position to ask the type where someone else is scrambling to figure out what answer I want to hear.

"A lot of people for one project," I say instead.

"Yeah, a bit. That's what happens when there aren't any locals to take the lead. Maybe in a few more decades we'll get a North America office. Really, we should have one by now, but it's hard to cover everywhere interesting in the world." She watches me with bright eyes. "You've mostly worked this continent, right?"

"Exclusively."

"Except for the Marches work," she says, and I would like to know where she heard about _that_. None of my time in the Marches has been in service to Theft, even if I managed to please Valefor with one instance of it. "Maybe you'll get a chance to branch out. You should try some real travel. It's fun. Meet new people, steal new things. If you want--" She pauses at a knock on the door that doesn't sound like Zabina's tapping. "Good, they're back."

A middle-aged man with wide eyes walks in first, his pace uneven and his arms full of grocery bags. "Someone remembered to bring his reusable bags," he says. "And so I just picked out--oh!" He eyes me uncertainly, and hurries towards the kitchen. "Where's Zee?"

"In with the boss," Julie says promptly. "Where's Trey?"

"Dealing with the car. This guy's car. Since we only have the two garage tags, and it's not a nice enough car to keep." He unloads his bags on the floor, and swings the fridge open. "Could we get a third tag? I'd like another car. Those little smart cars are cute."

Julie leaves the couch, and...helps him put away groceries. Which should not surprise me as much as it does, but it's an oddly human gesture. Buying food, putting it in a fridge. Maybe some of them have Roles to maintain. "Not unless we clear another apartment," she says, "and you can only send so many humans on sudden trips in one place before the other mortals start to notice. We'll have to live with two. You've met Leo, right?"

The Shedite glances my way, and ducks a little nod. I don't know what he's so twitchy about. I only implied I might pitch him out a window once. "Very nice to meet you again," he says, the phrase a tumble of words that suggest he's memorized the phrase by rote. "I'm Guo."

Julie laughs, and ruffles his hair. She has to stand on tip-toes to do it with his current host. "Relax, Gee, she doesn't bite. Do you, Leo?"

I spread my hands. "Only when provoked."

"See? Nothing to worry about. She's in the room with you and Trey, with the olive suitcase, so keep your hands out of that one." Julie kisses the Shedite's host on the cheek, and returns to the couches. This time, she sits down on the same one as me. "Do be nice to Gee, Leo. He's still figuring out how to be polite, and if you warn him he usually won't make the same mistake twice."

"I always give warning to coworkers and allies," I say. Nice. Playing nice. Even with a creepy little Shedite who should've known better than to make assumptions based on my vessel.

"I heard what happened to that Impudite from Lust," mutters the Shedite. He ends up pulling a chair out from the dining table set between kitchen and couches, and sitting backwards on that, his chin resting on his arms. "Did you warn him?"

"Didn't do a thing to him," I say promptly. They're never going to let me live down what happened with Anthony, and if people keep bringing it up like it was something _unusual_ , I'll end up wondering if I should feel guilty about it. Or if I should've just set his apartment on fire, which might have drawn less gossip overall.

"What you didn't do was pretty funny," Julie says, flashing a properly Theft smile at me across the couch. "If maybe a little impolitic, but who cares about _politics_? Too many people in Hell take that kind of thing too seriously."

Which I agree with, but know better than to say out loud. Zabina seemed like the one in charge of this group, at least after the Marquis, but I'm increasingly unsure of that. Maybe she's just projecting confidence and wearing a good suit. "Too many people want to make a good story out of an unfortunate coincidence."

There's a rap on the door that I recognize. The Shedite dashes over to pull the door open, and puts on a hopeful smile for the Lilim. Which she does not return, but she does look him over, rather than ignoring him as I might've expected.

"A good host choice," she says to him, and his smile intensifies. "Did you pick it out yourself?"

"Trey helped," he says, shifting from one foot to the other. He may be able to pick the right hosts, but he's no good at wearing them yet. I don't think a man who dresses like that stands and moves the way he does.

"We can always use another white guy," Julie says. "They're so useful."

Zabina ignores her somewhat pointedly, and says to me, "The Marquis will see you now. Guo, show her the way."

Pretty sure I could find my way back to a door she pointed out to me not half an hour ago. But I'd just as soon have a local guide for encounters with my least favorite member of Theft's aristocracy. "After you," I tell the Shedite.

"Shoes," Zabina murmurs to me, though her gaze falls on Julie. Who is being seen as some sort of corrupting influence now, I guess. The reckless destroyer of the Lilim's fashion choices.

I put on a pleasant expression like I don't mind any of this, and wedge the damn boots back on my feet. _Then_ I follow the Shedite out the door to get a better idea of how bad this job is going to be.


	6. In Which Someone Actually Notices The Areas Of My Expertise

The Marquis's apartment may be the same size as the one her servants--or employees, as Zabina seems to prefer calling them--are occupying; the central room's the same layout, and there's no knowing about further doors. She has the curtains drawn, and furniture for living room and dining room sorts of events shoved largely out of the way to allow her paperwork to spread across every available surface. I've seen her in the ruins of a hotel room, and in a tidy hotel conference room, but I suspect this is nearer her natural habitat. Three monitors surround a laptop. They're not pointed in a direction that anyone walking in the door would be able to see them.

The Shedite's quiet and meek as soon as the door closes, standing directly in front of the door like some sort of bodyguard blocking out intruders. Or like some sort of guard blocking me in. I try to look tidy and attentive and respectful, which probably comes across mostly as blank-faced.

Like it matters. Powerful demons do whatever they want, and in my experience, what I do in their presence isn't very relevant to that decision-making process. At most, some of them bother to use my actions as an explicit justification for what they felt like doing anyway. Captain Savas was like that; he always had _some_ reason for hurting me when we met.

I don't think the Marquis needs a reason.

She looks as she did the last time I saw her. A different outfit, probably, but the same type. Professional. Dangerous. She turns away from the computer screen that's been occupying her attention only a few seconds after we enter, which means this time she's not making a big implicit statement about how unimportant my entrance is. Couldn't really say if that's a plus or not. I'm going to assume no.

"When did you last do architectural work?" she asks me.

"Design or destruction?"

"Either, if it required significant planning."

Zhune never lets me blow up any buildings. Which is fair enough, since it's hard to justify that much disturbance. "About six years." Which was when I was building tombs for ethereals in the Marches. Setting that one school gym on fire didn't really count.

She drums her fingers on the table she's made into a sort of office desk, staring at me rather as if she's deciding how much my market value has depreciated since then. "It will have to suffice," she says at last. "There are various blueprints and so forth in that stack." One manicured fingernail indicates the subset of papers in question, and that does explain the poster tubes in the pile. "Sort them out. Determine which have been produced by the same organizations. Discover what commonalities exist such that you could predict other designs by the same organizations, and security weaknesses there."

I nod, because that pause indicates some sort of response is required.

"Do you have any questions?"

"Not before seeing the data," I say, and wonder if there's any title I ought to be using with her. Surely Zabina would have mentioned it if that were expected.

The Marquis nods, a short movement that's no longer connected with any attention directed obviously at me. She leaves her place behind the table to walk past me and direct the Shedite, a hand on his host's shoulder, towards the appropriate stack of blueprints. "All of these," she tells him, and he scrambles to gather as much as he can up in his arms.

She glances back at me, and beckons me over with two fingers. Which I respond to promptly like an obedient dog, because that is what you do around people who can shred you. At least while they're looking.

And when I'm in arm's reach, she adjusts the collar of my jacket, and the way the scarf hangs about my neck.

"If you have questions," she says, "ask one of the others." Which does not seem to include Guo, the Shedite with his arms full of everything I need to get started on this impossibly vague assignment. "Keep your phone with you. People ought to be able to contact you easily without spending Essence on it." She lifts my wrist, and fastens a button that's come loose on the cuff of the jacket there.

And that done, she returns to her work at the computers. Which is as good as a dismissal. Guo leads me out, back across the hallway, and I do not like _anything_ about this.

Except maybe the nominal job itself. It's been too long since anyone gave me an intellectual challenge that had much to do with what I studied. Whether this is lucky coincidence (before it all goes wrong) or the setup for a trap, I don't _care_.


	7. In Which I Finally Get To Work

We weren't in the Marquis's office all that long, but there's no one visible in the apartment when we get back inside. (And we'd have been back even sooner if Guo hadn't dropped half of what he was carrying in the hall, trying to open the door himself while holding all that mess.) Both bedroom doors are closed, and there's a faint murmur of voices I can't distinguish behind the one claimed by Julie and Zabina. There's also a pair of boots by the front door, glossy black with water, and damp footprints leading to the bathroom where a shower is running.

"Trey must be back," says the Shedite, and his shoulders straighten fractionally. I can't tell yet if that's a modicum of confidence derived from pleasant anticipation or him bracing for new terror. "Where do you want all of this?"

"Coffee table," I say, for lack of better ideas so far. Whatever work the others have to do, it doesn't seem to have inspired anyone to haul in desks, and I'm leery of co-opting the entire dining table before I know what other people intend to use. I could've used less discussion of keeping my hands off other people's luggage and more explanation of how these people do their work.

The resulting mess does not inspire. Some of these are proper blueprints, but a fair number of these are more like what you'd find on an apartment complex's website. Pitifully basic layouts with more furniture than wall materials marked, or even hand-drawn diagrams of some building a person walked through and--judging by the nearest drawing at hand--attempted to explain to a second party from memory. I sit down on the rug and prop my elbows on the coffee table, careful not to touch anything yet. Maybe I should've asked about deadlines. Though if there were an urgent one, I expect she would've said something, so maybe it's more that I don't get to leave until I'm done here.

Guo dashes away into the bedroom we're sharing--not sure how that matters when none of us need to sleep--and returns with my messenger bag, which still holds nothing but my phone and books. Yes, it probably is a good idea for me to keep the damn phone around, given explicit instructions by the Marquis. I need to start paying better attention to these things. When Zhune tells me to do something, I take it under consideration. When the Marquis tells me to do something, it might as well be the Boss talking to me, for careful I should be to obey.

"Thanks," I say, and fish out the phone to lay on the table by the stacks of papers. There. As ready to work as I'm ever going to be.

Once upon a time I had an office and a desk. Office supplies. A computer, that usually didn't work. Proper tools. This is a half-assed setup with insufficient equipment and the wrong sort of furniture and lousy project guidelines and I should not be so _grateful_. That someone actually remembered I can do this sort of thing. That I get a chance to pay attention to--things I like, yes, I _enjoyed_ the whole architectural gig, no matter how much I complained about it, no matter the goals set, no matter that it was assigned to me with no choice in the matter. It felt like it mattered in some way, and like I was someone with an actual skill that not every blank-eyed Bandmate could replicate.

"Do you need anything else?" Guo asks. He's hovering a bit, though he's smart enough to do it in my line of sight and not leaning over my shoulder. If he's doing support work, maybe that even includes support for contractors. Or maybe it's a setup. Hard to tell, with Shedim.

"A notebook and box of pencils." He nods promptly, so I go ahead and give him an actual list. "Ruler, protractor, and make that two notebooks, one lined and one grid. A decent pen wouldn't go amiss." I'd go on to ask for a lighter and pack of cigarettes, but it's probably best not to push things yet. "Hell, pick up a compass while you're at. Basic drawing kit, like they sell to kids taking geometry. Unless you know of a place with decent drafting equipment?" He shakes his head. "Then we'll start on the cheap stuff."

"I'd better ask someone for cash," he says. "I'm not supposed to use host's credit cards for project expenses, and that's all this man carries." He pulls out a wallet, and flips through the contents. "It's supposed to make him better at tracking his expenses, but that's not working very well. He'd probably be happier if he went after what he really wanted, instead of spending so much time thinking about it and then being afraid to try."

I would ask if he tries to analyze and judge all his hosts, but I expect I would if I were a Shedite. It must be fascinating--or tedious, I'm not sure which--to be able to look into the memories of so many people. Like easy access to memoirs with lousy pacing and no sense of narrative. Between their dissonance condition and celestial appearance and inability to ever have a corporeal body of their own, I should be eternally grateful that I was made a Calabite instead. That I get a resonance that's good for something, and fucks with the world around me instead of with my own head. As far as I can tell.

"You could swap to a host with cash," I say, and stare at the papers. Nothing should fall apart just by me handling it, and another Calabite won't expect me to hand these things back in pristine condition, but still. Maybe it's time to pull out those gloves Zabina bought me, and work through this carefully. Careful is good. If I screw up anything in this job I've been given, I don't know what will happen, but I'm sure I won't enjoy it. And perfection means taking things slowly.

"I should probably hold onto this one a while longer," Guo says, with an uneasy glance towards the bedroom where Julie and Zabina are having whatever conversation that is. Would not have taken the two of them for the sort to hole up in a room together, but if they're working on the same project, maybe it's as the Lilim said. Needs must.

"Suit yourself. Swipe a wallet?"

"I'm not very good at that yet," the Shedite mutters, arms folded over his chest. "Most of my work's been back in Hell, this is my first real _project_ here."

"Maybe you should practice." I can't say that with much conviction; I'm no damn good at pickpocketing either, and leave that to Zhune when it's necessary or convenient. Shoplifting is about the extent of my abilities when it comes to the pettier types of theft. "Never mind, I can wait, if no one in this apartment has cash on hand."

"Julie always does," Guo says, "but I think she and Zabina are arguing. Or having sex. Or both. They usually close the door for one or the other."

I can't interpret the sounds either way. Do not intend to listen closely enough to figure it out. Though I suppose it's useful to know that the Marquis doesn't run such a tight and focused work group that people can't take some time off now and again for that sort of thing.

"I can wait," I repeat, and bundle all the poster tubes under the coffee table to give myself more room to spread things out without needing to worry about knocking them places. "Though if you could find any sort of pad of paper and something to write with, that'd be a start."

"Mostly people just use their phones, or tablets, or laptops," the Shedite says. It would figure that I'd get stuck working for a technologically-obsessed branch of Theft. (Who even knew that we did white collar crime? Though I could've guessed, if I'd ever given that much thought.) "There's a printer, though, and your phone should network to it fine already, since Julie set it up. She's good with that sort of thing."

The phone in my bag is still an unfriendly black lump, but I set it square in front of me and turn the damn thing on. The icons eventually cough up something that gives me basic text entry, and another option for drawing, but this is not enough. This is terrible. "Really. Any sort of paper and pen would do for a start."

"I'll look," says the Shedite, and then pauses, head cocked like a dog, at the sound of the shower turning off. "Or I'll ask Trey, he'll know."

If I didn't know the Band of the demon behind the door already, I'd begin to suspect a Habbalite had turned the Shedite's mind, or approximation thereof, into adoring goo. As it is, I gather our remaining Impudite is good enough at his Band's speciality to make at least one friend. "Yeah, you do that," I say, and drag the top paper from the nearest stack in front of me by the fingertips. This one has some proper labeling. Unfortunately, it's labeling in a language I don't know. "Can you read this?"

"Of course," he says. "You can't?"

I am saved from the need to come up with a properly scathing reply by the bathroom door opening. The Impudite who steps out has pants on, comfortably worn jeans of the sort I'd rather be wearing right now, and not much else, though he's in the process of pulling on a clingy black t-shirt I suspect costs as much as my jacket. "I am told," he says, yanking the shirt down into place, "that our contractor has arrived." His smile is aimed at the two of us in equal measure, and it could charm the socks off a fox. "Nice to meet you, Leo. Got everything you need?" He punctuates the question by pushing damp hair back from his face. The move has to be practiced, and it is entirely effective.

And I've seen worse lighting reflecting off that same glossy black before, in another place entirely. He was wearing a damn similar outfit there, too.

"She needs some supplies," Guo says, springing forward to just about circle the Impudite. "Do you have cash?"

"Back in the other pants," says the Impudite, jerking a thumb towards the bathroom. "Help yourself. If you're going a ways, take the key. The car's three blocks north, just past the Seattle's Best." He swaps places with the Shedite, and then drops down to sit cross-legged across from me at the coffee table. Elbows to the table, chin resting on clasped hands. They could use pictures of him in that pose to sell the shirt. "Did Julie go over the basics with you already?"

"Where to drop off the luggage, keeping my shoes off the furniture, yes. The basics. Guo filled me in on this apartment not having a single notebook that is not actually a computer."

"Possibly a failing," the Impudite says readily, "but that can be fixed." He lifts a hand in farewell as the Shedite trots past us, keys jingling in one hand. "Be careful out there, and call if you run into any trouble, okay?"

"I will," Guo says earnestly, and quite nearly breaks into a run.

When the front door closes, the Impudite turns a smile on me personally. "I don't think he's going to find anywhere to buy drafting supplies at this time of morning, but he could use the practice of hunting around through commercial areas."

"It'll be an exciting learning experience." My hands want a pen to spin around, or a cigarette to dangle. What I have is a phone and stacks of papers. I fold my hands over my knees instead. "Trey, huh?"

"It's a good name for local use," he says. "Flying below the radar is useful for getting a job done." Like he could, with a vessel like that. About as likely as me doing the same in this one. "Do you go by Leo in both your vessels?"

And here I was thinking that most people didn't know I had two. Word must get around, sooner or later. "Leah for this one, if the wrong sort of people are listening in." I tap a few fingers on my knee, where there's no way for him to see the gesture through the stacks of paper on the coffee table, and consider my options. Much as playing everything polite and sweet is the safest way to go, I'm...I don't know. A little annoyed. Suspicious, or maybe paranoid, not sure if I can tell the difference anymore. "Did you ever spot that target you were watching for in that alley?"

He goes still for an instant--I wouldn't have caught that if I weren't already watching for it--and then laughs. He unclasps his hands, and sprawls backward, resting his head and shoulders against the couch behind him. "I did not think you'd remember me from there. Sure, I spotted my target eventually, and so late there was no time to do anything else that might've been fun that day. Are you up for a cup of coffee now?"

"Not a coffee fan."

"Beer, then," he says, "some time. Or not, if you'd rather not. I wouldn't have recognized you in this vessel, but the boss said you worked with that Djinn, and I did recognize him back in that alley. So, logical deduction. And now here you are."

Here I am, surrounded by strangers who know more about me than I might like. "With work to do," I say, "not that I'm going to make much progress until the Shedite gets back. How long do you expect that to take him?"

"Hours," Trey says. He laces his fingers behind his head. "He's a good kid, but very new to the corporeal thing. Between you and me, not really a net benefit to the project, but he'll be better the next time around from what he learns here." He pauses a moment as a sound drifts past from the second bedroom. "Did Julie talk about the city much?"

"Can't say it came up."

"Then I'll consider the lecture delegated." He tilts his head back to look at the ceiling for a moment, sorting through whatever the lecture is going to be. Reminds me of Ash, when he does that. It's so nearly a deliberate pose. (And who am I kidding about _nearly_?) "Okay," he says, when he looks back to me. "Seattle. More of a travel hub for celestials than humans, proportion-wise, because it's not nailed down like San Fran or L.A., when it comes to this coast, and it's better connected than swinging further north. Overall, it's a noisy city on the disturbance side. The good news is that means you can drop Essence into work any time there aren't any echoes still audible around you, and no one's likely to do much investigation of basic stuff--swapping vessels, focus boosts, that kind of thing--unless they're really looking for trouble. The bad news is that if you start breaking anything big, or throwing around Songs that sound like violence, people will drop on your head."

"Quiet is easy," I say. "Unless we're expecting trouble?"

"Fuck, no," he says, and his smile's all reassurance and confidence in one. "If this project runs as smoothly as the boss wants, we won't be exchanging so much as harsh words with anyone else. _Most_ of our work goes that way. We're not a violence-heavy operation, here. Though if you find that too boring at length, we could probably find you a quiet fist-fight somewhere on a Saturday night when most of the locals are too drunk to track disturbance."

"I'm not that addicted to violence, but thanks for the thought. Who are the locals?"

He sits up to trace out a sort of map across one of the sheets of paper with his middle finger. "On the one side, Trade's the big one, over at the Pike Place Market. Not a major Tether in power, so far as I know, but busy. They'll sell access to anyone in Heaven, so it's a popular gateway." His finger slides across to the leftmost edge of the paper. "Now over in Redmond, that's Technology. Not half so ready to let other people use the place, but they keep the place busy themselves. Then there's Factions..." He drags his finger nearer me, and taps the paper there. "Little Tether, barely worth thinking about, but just about anyone can pop out. So you might run into any Word, but those are the places they're most likely to come from."

I lean back on my hands. "A good reason to keep quiet."

He shrugs loosely. "And if you hear any disturbance that you can't pinpoint the source on, walk the other way."

"Should I expect much in earshot of this place? Or do you mean on trips to keep out of dissonance range?"

"Oh, hell," Trey says, "I mean when you're out in general." He springs up, and pads on bare feet towards the kitchen. "Five people locked in an apartment this size, all trying to get work done? There'd be throats cut, no matter how much we like each other, by the end of the fourth day if we only left for obligatory travel. Take eight hours off every day. It's only fair, since we work an extra eight compared to humans, what with not needing to sleep. Plus smoking breaks and dinner, and other sorts of trips." He pulls open the fridge, and takes out another bottle of the beer Julie gave me when I walked in. So that's who they're bought for. "You can go wherever you want, but we mostly travel in pairs. A little safer that way. Guo runs around alone half the time, but that's for easy stuff, and a Shedite can just swap hosts if he gets spotted by the wrong person."

"Who's the wrong sort of person?" I ask. "Given the project."

"Anyone who's not a very good friend," he says, and this time the grin's got a toothy edge to it. Nearer to the sort of smile you expect from Calabim, or Magpies. I could almost forget these people are Theft, with the expensive clothes and...I don't know. Stability? Whatever it is that lets this many Magpies take over an apartment (maybe I shouldn't ask what happened to the previous owner, because it's furnished like humans lived in it until all of us showed up) and settle in like the demonic cast of _Friends_ , corporate infiltration edition.

"That makes things simple," I say, and slide a sheet of paper into another stack, somewhat arbitrarily.

"Focus on your own work, and trust your coworkers," he says. "And have enough fun that you don't burn out and get less effective. It's really that simple." He picks up a tablet from the dining table on the way back, and sits down on the couch where he can face me, curled up in a corner with his feet beneath him. "Though I have to say, your part of the project looks anything but."

"Anything but," I echo, and wish I had an office with a door that I could close on people.

"Anything I can help with?"

"You have work of your own, don't you?"

"Sure," he says, "but it's not urgent."

And the sooner I get this done, the sooner I can leave. Get back to Zhune. Find out what he was _thinking_ , or if he wasn't, to let me get caught up in this. (He's not bored of me yet, I know that much.) I hold up the paper labeled in what's probably Chinese. "Can you translate this for me?"

"Sure," he says. "I bet I can even find a pen _somewhere_ in this place."

Which only goes to show that the Shedite needs to try a little harder, if he's going to get anywhere in life.


	8. An Interlude, In Which Nicotine Is Everyone's Friend

The translation work kept Lanthano busy until noon. He could've swept through it faster, but why would he want that? Everything waiting for him on the tablet was scutwork, the kind of tedious sorting that required a live person's examination without offering a gram of real challenge or interest. Handing papers back and forth, adding notes and asking questions about technical jargon, now, that was more worth his time. He enjoyed watching the Calabite settle into the work. The tension at the corners of her eyes smoothed out until she was all focus, which meant something.

She stopped checking the distance between them every time they swapped papers around, and that meant something more.

Meanwhile, Zabina and Yuliang finished their latest argument by way of the bed, and took possession of opposite corners of the apartment with their laptops. Lanthano entertained himself by tracking which of the two sent more narrow glances towards the other. Zabina was currently winning in having paid the least attention to her rival, if perhaps only by virtue of work with an imminent deadline. (Which should've convinced her to postpone that argument until after deadline, but no one had asked him. And she always seemed to hit her targets anyway, so it was no business of his how close she cut it.)

Guo returned at a quarter to noon with bags of supplies to drop a wary meter away from the Calabite--a terribly obvious level of unfriendliness, and he'd have to talk to the kid about that, somewhere private that it wouldn't come across as too harsh a criticism--and then a cardboard holder of coffees to distribute. Five cups, so the criticism wouldn't be terribly harsh. Maybe he could work with that. Convince Leo to coax the Shedite back into social ease for the sake of practicality, and see if that led anywhere useful.

When the translation was done, he sat back with his tablet and drank his coffee, watching Leo not drink her own. Handheld computers were one of the best things humans--or Vapulans, whichever happened to be most involved--had come up with. They let him obscure the direction of his gaze, giving him a movable screen to always have before his eyes if someone should try to see where he has looking.

And _where_ was almost always _other people_ , because people were more interesting in person than as stacks of data to sort and tag and send back to Yuliang for a decision on which should be pursued in person.

He waved over Guo, and passed his empty coffee cup to the Shedite. Whose host was exactly to Zabina's taste, and who was wearing it all wrong for the Lilim to appreciate that. Well. An Impudite could only do so much on his own to keep coworkers happy. "Bring me the coat I left hanging in the bathroom, would you? And that umbrella you brought in yesterday."

"Sure thing, Trey." The kid didn't know how to wear a host so that it acted like itself and not like the Shedite inside it, but at least he knew how to deal with coworkers. Lanthano had worked with less friendly Shedim before. The boss wouldn't hire on anyone who couldn't be civil and dependable to others, but there was civil, and then there was friendly. He preferred the latter. It didn't have to be honest--that would be asking too much of some people--but it made group projects more pleasant.

When the Shedite returned with the jacket, Lanthano pulled that on, then leaned forward. Not too far, a hand on his knee to brace himself against and keep from looking as if he were about to lunge, tablet pushed carelessly aside on the cushions. "Leo," he said, and waited for eye contact. "Smoke break? It's about time for one."

Half a breath of consideration, and then the Calabite said, "Why not," and got to her feet. She ignored the boots she'd taken off hours ago, now pushed most of the way under the couch. "Where to?"

"Fire escape. I've got too much work to do for a longer trip." Lanthano led the way through the second bedroom, and hauled the window open. The rain had subsided from a downpour to a drizzle, with enough wind to blow it into his face. "Not ideal weather, but that's the Pacific Northwest for you. Better than a monsoon, right?" He popped open the umbrella, and climbed out the window first, then held it up for Leo to follow with some protection.

"Would not know." She climbed over the windowsill as if she were more used to exiting buildings by windows than doors anyway. "When's this supposed to let up?"

"Based on the forecast? Thursday. Here, hold this." Lanthano passed her the umbrella, tilted in just enough to keep his head underneath it. Not looming. Just coincidentally nearby, as the shelter required. He lit a cigarette for himself, tucked it in his mouth, then took the umbrella back and offered her the pack and the lighter in turn. "I'm told that if you hit midwinter here, entire hills ice up sometimes. You get buses sliding down backwards."

"I wouldn't mind seeing that," Leo said. She lit a cigarette, and passed the rest back. Held the cigarette between her fingers, and didn't even take a drag of it, which was interesting. Unusual. Lanthano liked the unusual sort of interesting. For picking apart to discover its reasons and intentions and potential, for the way it stood out from decades of learning the repetitive habits of thousands of people. By and large, demons weren't any more exciting than mortals, even if their habits skewed differently if he ran the stats.

"Then it's a pity we're not likely to be here that long." Lanthano pressed his shoulders back against the damp glass of the window, and wiped the sole of one wet foot against his calf. "You could always swing by in February. That's how the two of you travel, right?" He flicked a gesture towards the wide and dangerous world beyond with the ash of his cigarette. "Like the wolf packs, with their bikes and games."

"Fewer motorcycles. Somewhat more time spent fleeing from angry Tether security. But about the same otherwise." Leo edged nearer the outside of the umbrella. Not away from him for anything just said, but to where she could slouch against solid wall instead of glass. A demon who spent that much time running from danger wouldn't want her back to a glass surface, no matter who was on the other side, and Lanthano was annoyed--ever so slightly--to not have thought of that already, and arranged the umbrella to make use of it. "You ever run with those?"

"No, though Julie might've once. Back when they had... I don't know, horses?" Lanthano let this wave be more general, relaxed. There was nothing dangerous about discussing coworkers, and that was the message to convey. "She's been with the boss--I mean, Chaixin, longer than the rest of us who are here."

"Whereas Zabina's older, but hasn't been part of the group for so long. That explains some of it." Which was rather more information than he thought she'd acquired. Leo watched the cigarette burning towards the place where it was tucked between her fingers, and Lanthano watched in turn to see how close she'd let it come to burning the skin. Given her Discord.

She twisted the cigarette butt between her fingers, and it dissolved into powder. Not the shards of Chaixin's resonance expressed on an object, but a handful of dust that flared for an instant with the remains of the heat before falling in a gray mist through the grated floor of the landing.

"None of my business, really," she said. "I should get back to work."

"We should," he said easily, and saw that she hadn't missed the pronoun choice. Hadn't quite accepted it, either, but was willing enough to let him pull the window open again, hold the umbrella over her return to the room.

Lanthano was not, he had to admit, a very patient man. He liked flashy things and fast things, sharp sweet encounters and the bite of an unexpected twist. But it was no great trial to wait days or weeks, compared to the projects that dragged on for months at a time. Years.

He handed the umbrella to her when he'd climbed inside as well, and was careful to not make skin contact. Just a casual expectation that she'd lend an exceedingly trivial bit of assistance while he closed the window, without any need for him to ask. Without any reason for him to expect she'd do otherwise, and she wasn't so arrogant to refuse, either. Chaixin wouldn't hire anyone who couldn't manage the most basic details of social courtesy among coworkers. (Which was why they never had any Balseraphs, or at least one of the reasons.) "Did Guo bring you enough to work with?"

"For the moment."

And when he started getting the sentence fragments, it was time to stop pushing. He preceded her into the room and left her to the papers, searching through the fridge for something that wasn't coffee or beer or Julie's peculiar sodas that no one else would touch.

"You have _shoes_ ," Zabina said wearily, and for a moment he thought she was talking to him. But when he glanced over, she was focused on the Calabite and her wet socks.

"Must've forgotten," Leo said, a bland statement accompanied by no expression at all.

"I'm corrupting the youth," Lanthano said, and picked out two beers after all. One for him, one for Leo, and a quick smile at Zabina on the way past that said _I've got this_. He could not quite tell her to back off, given seniority levels on this project, but there wasn't any need.

"Do try to be less of a bad influence," Zabina said, and added under her breath in a language the Calabite wouldn't know, "Raised by _wolves_."

Which he could not exactly disagree with.


	9. In Which Dinner Is Served

It has been nearly twenty-four hours since I walked away from Zhune for this job and I honestly don't know how I feel about that.

I've ditched him for longer before, on various jobs. And it's not like I need him for any of this. If these people don't intend to do obvious physical damage to me--which I'm still not ruling out, but seems increasingly unlikely, compared to some more subtle kind of attack--there's not a lot he could do for me by being here anyway, except make me feel worse about the clothes I'm wearing or harass me over my reading material. So there's no particular reason to care whether he's here or not. He'll be waiting when this project is over and then everything goes back to normal.

But the job itself is getting to my head, because I can't figure out if there's a catch, because there's always a catch with demons, or if I'm just being paranoid. Too much time spent imprinting on Balseraphs and running Renegade and working with a partner who likes to fuck with my head, until I assume everyone is fucking with me. When most of them just...don't care. Like Sean put it. He's killed my partner once, I saved him from death or dissonance once, we've had a few scraps, and he really does not care enough about me to come find me on his day off. For the vast majority of people I run into, I am not interesting enough to bother with in any sense.

Which is probably a good thing.

If they're messing with anyone deliberately, it's Zhune. He's the one who matters enough for the Marquis to set out to harass him. Best case scenario is that it's merely the harassment of taking me away for a while, and not actually so vicious a revenge as to involve sending me back with permanent damage. Or not sending me back at all. 

I don't think they can quite get away with that.

But there are always accidents. And I'm not sure.

Still. It's been an odd afternoon by my standards, in a way that makes me wonder if it's my standards that are off balance rather than these people. They mostly just do _work_ , poking at their respective computers and so forth. Like being back at the architectural office, with Ylva lurking in her office and the rest of us nose to the grindstone at our assigned duties. That's normal. That's not anything that should feel other than ordinary, even if they're getting along better than I expect out of this many demons in a space like this. There's none of the aura of general hostility that I remember from the office, where we all hated each other, except for poor doomed Holly.

These demons work in the same space as if they like each other, Zabina and Julie aside. Everyone treats Guo like some adorable but semi-competent intern, throwing trivial tasks to him and patting him on the head--mostly metaphorically, though I think Julie ruffled his hair once--when he meets those extremely simple goals. Trey chats with the others in passing, like he wants to talk to them. On purpose. (Maybe it's an Impudite thing. Anthony was friendly as anything, and I saw right through that from the start. Look where that went.) And they just--talk. Not often. It's a pretty quiet room. But even so. Julie harassing Trey about his musical choices and him criticizing hers in turn, almost like the way Zhune and I argue about literature, and Zabina finally told him to go put some shoes on and he just...did.

It's easier for me to read the lines of hierarchy and power struggle when people don't seem so comfortable about it. Which is why Zabina and Julie's feud is obvious, and I don't know exactly how everyone relates otherwise.

Not that it matters. None of my business, exactly as I told Trey, and I'm out of here as soon as I finish this job. Presumably. The Marquis might have another stack as big as this one waiting for me when I clear this to her vague specifications, or just another stage of work on this. I still haven't done more than put together a basic catalog of how many different documents I'm working with. Sure, I'm seeing patterns in there, but nothing so clear that I'm comfortable sorting, much less doing analysis on structural and security weaknesses, until I've got more written out. That's the part that's my job. When I'm done with the work, I find Zhune again--well, he finds me--and whatever these people get up to is of no concern to me.

"Who's on for dinner?" Trey asks the room at large, shoving his tablet away on the couch. I'm getting the impression that he's bored by whatever work he has on there. Either that or he's playing a lot of games with the sound turned off, and doesn't find them exciting either. Can't tell from where I'm sitting.

"You are," Zabina says promptly. Never one to pass up an opportunity to establish that she's in charge, even if the matter's in doubt within the room. "Do you need an assistant?"

"That'd make it go faster." Trey spares a quick smile for Guo's move towards standing. "Run out and get a bottle of red, would you? Something basic for the table."

"If it's about the chopping thing," Guo says, shoulders hunching in, "I'm sure I wouldn't do that twice."

"Not at all," Trey says. "I just didn't think to buy wine while we were out last night."

Julie does wait for Guo to leave before saying, "At least we know he's never going to stab us all in the back, because he'd miss the shot."

"Not everyone can do knives like you do," Trey says sweetly, though I suspect there's a barb in that. Even so, the other Impudite looks amused, and turns back to her laptop. No help from that quarter, and Zabina's question doesn't seem to have been an offer, because she's typing briskly away again.

When Trey looks my way, my first inclination is to go lend him a hand. That makes me uneasy right off. Like I owe any of these people a damn thing, except to get the job done and get out of here. Like there's any reason for demons to bother eating, except for Role maintenance or personal entertainment. Like I should do the minion work, just because the Shedite's too incompetent.

So I stay right where I am with my work until he turns away and starts pulling things out of the fridge.

And about two minutes later I feel like I'm being some sort of petty--I don't know. _Kid_. Making a point about hierarchy when no one here is trying to shove me into anything except for clothes, and when Trey's been decent so far. He doesn't push like Anthony did. (Maybe that's for later.) None of them really care what I do except so far as it affects them directly, and if I want to sulk in a corner and not play nicely with others, they'll let me.

Most demons aren't so good at playing nicely with others unless they're getting something out of it, and I have nothing to gain from being accommodating to these people. It is entirely demonic to be petty, selfish, and disinclined to do favors that probably won't be repaid.

Or as Ash said, we're demons. Whatever we do is therefore demonic.

I finish up my current set of notes, and then head over to the kitchen to see if this particular demon, who's sorting out ingredients, could use any help.

Trey gives me a quick smile, and says, "Ever chopped onions?"

"No," I say, "but it can't be that much harder than safe-cracking."

"Would not know," he says. "But so long as you don't bleed over them, we'll be fine."

A cutting board's already laid out, and knife on top of it. The knife's nothing that Regan would've considered worth touching--she wouldn't even keep knives in the house if they didn't meet her standards--but it should suffice for dismembering some vegetables. "If I bleed over the onions, do I get out of dinner duty?"

"You weren't in the rotation anyway," Trey says. He's still setting out ingredients and tools, making this some sort of production well beyond my level of expertise. But I can chop a damn onion. "If you'd like to be, we can certainly find room."

"Better not, unless everyone's dying for someone to break out the macaroni and cheese from a box." There's a certain satisfaction to chopping onions that I had not expected; it's a very controlled type of destruction, and for a purpose. Destruction has to have a reason, or why bother? Without, it's just reaction. Like a flinch or a scream.

"Not a lot of chance for cooking?"

"Not a lot of reason." I haven't had any reason at all to make food since I handed Katherine off to Judgment, and there is no reason to bring that up. Ever. "What's the point here? Role maintenance?"

"Partly that." Trey lines a set of carrots up beside the chopping board, between one motion and the next. He's fast in the kitchen the way Zhune's fast with picking pockets. Unconscious competence, where he doesn't need to think about how he does it, only that he wants it done. "It's wise to maintain a strong connection to the physical details of being human, if we want to convince the Symphony that we are who we are in mundane life. Even if it's not entirely plausible for our respective Roles to show up here together right now, the day-to-day maintenance helps. But it's also a way of keeping in touch with coworkers on the project. Having a hard line drawn between the end of the work day and the beginning of breaks. Social rituals. They're arbitrary, but they still matter."

I shove the onions to the side, and start on the carrots. The uneven results can't matter too much, because he takes the onions without complaint and adds them to a pan. "Does it actually help anything?"

"Sure. People like routine. Even demons. It's easier for your mind to process new input if there are patterns in place that don't need processing. Novelty and routine, that keeps a mind going." He has another quick smile for me when he passes by to grab a pot from a low cupboard. Small as this kitchenette is, he's not jostling my elbows while I work. "When work's interesting, you can work longer at a stretch. When it's not, you need more breaks. Dinner's predictable and interesting both. So, yes. It helps. The cauliflower can be bigger chunks."

I finish the carrots, and move on to the cauliflower. This is mindless work, or nearly so, but it gives me space to think. As does some of the mixing he asks me to do, when all the chopping's done. One thing Ylva never seemed to understand was that serious mental work usually involved as much staring at the wall as anything she'd recognize as "real" work. I can help Trey in the kitchen and work through some of what I've seen so far. Start to pull up the conclusions I get based on memory and impressions, then check those against the actual details again when I get back to the papers.

When the Shedite gets back, he's still wearing the same host, and he's assigned setting the table. Which leaves me out of work before dinner's ready, with nothing to do but wash my hands and watch Trey finish the last few details. He seems like the sort of person who wouldn't have minded keeping a human around. But that's Impudites for you. They like human pets, and that's not necessarily any better for the humans than the dislike of another demon would be. Sometimes it's probably worse.

"Five or six?" Guo asks. He cannot possibly mean--

"Five," says Julie, looking up from her work, so that's one thing I don't have to worry about. "Are we almost on? Get me a soda, Gee, would you? And a nice glass for Zabina, you know how she is about that."

By the time drinks and plates and serving dishes have been sorted out, it's after seven and there's no hint of light coming through the windows, blinds drawn or not. We could, I suppose, take our seats wherever we liked, but we end up seated where Guo put out the drink for each person. An import soda for Julie, glass of wine for Zabina (who ignored what Julie said, but I'm sure noticed it), beer for Trey and for me, and a tall glass of milk for Guo, who is not exactly rocking the Actual Adult look tonight.

I'm on the same side of the table as Trey, across from Guo. Julie and Zabina are at opposite ends, because even the Shedite can figure out that it's a good idea to keep them separated.

And once the food's served, everyone talks at the same damn time.

Guo's full of chatter about his day, which seems to have been a thrill-packed adventure of basic human activities like going to the grocery store and buying coffee. Julie talks right over him with a list of anecdotes from annoying dates she's been on with humans, and still manages to get in supportive comments on the Shedite's stories. Zabina only wants to talk work, which apparently means discussing the local culture, how best to work within it, and where one can find the most people in the tech sector on weekdays versus weekends inside the city.

Trey sounds interested in all three conversations at once, even when he's talking over one of them to respond to another. I don't know how he does it. Some sort of Impudite thing. I keep quiet and eat dinner, which is odd fare, but probably only because my rare meals over the last few years occurring mostly in diners. Regan would mock my lack of appreciation for international cuisine, and she'd probably be right to do it.

I wonder if working with her would have been anything like this. More a barracks atmosphere than this kind of civility, I expect, though she did like the high life. If it hadn't been for that whole mess with Katherine, maybe--

That is not a useful direction for my thoughts. I clear my plate, drink my beer, and wait for these people to do whatever it is unusually sociable demons do after dinner. 

Or is this unusual? Maybe I just have bad luck. Maybe _I'm_ just bad at getting along with people. Ash is friendly to a fault, Zhune has a hundred old friends. Plenty of demons can get along with each other for a while, in teams or partnerships or gangs or any other sort of more casual arrangement. The common factor in all the problems I've had with other demons has been me.

"I'm off at midnight," Julie announces to the table, shoving her chair back. "Nothing happens at the clubs before then anyway. Gee, you want to come along?"

"I'm going somewhere with Zabina," the Shedite says, and darts a glance down toward the Lilim. "Maybe if we finish early?"

"Unlikely," Zabina says. She folds her napkin to the side before she stands. "Do mind the house this time, Trey."

"We were never all gone at the same time," he points out, and does not look particularly worried at the correction. Seniority aside, I don't think any of these people can hurt each other much. That's the privilege of their employer across the hall. "Anyway, I will. Does that put me on clean-up as well as dinner?"

"Pretty much," Julie says, and kisses him on the temple as she walks past. "So sorry. I have work to do. Leo, you want to come clubbing?"

"I have work to do," I say, which is true.

"You need to take a break eventually." She does not try to drop any of those little touches she has for Trey and Guo on me, getting no nearer than putting a hand to the back of my chair. "I'll ask again later."

Which I don't expect will change my answer any, but if there's anything demons are especially bad at--beyond the obvious, like standing in celestial form in the center of a Heavenly Tether--it's respecting other people's preferences.

Zabina takes all of three minutes to get ready to go. She seems to handle fashion the way Trey does cooking: with the brisk assurance of someone entirely confident in their use of the available tools. Guo falls into her wake without any further prompting. And as the two of them pass, Julie lifts the car keys from Zabina's purse as easily as Zhune could've done it.

So far as I can tell, no one else saw.

I finish clearing the dishes to the sink with Trey, and leave him to the washing. There are limits to how much accommodation to local customs I'm willing to do for the sake of not annoying the people who are all more attached to each other than they are to me. (Unless being accommodating reads as weakness, which is always a possibility. It may be one of those lose-lose choices.) For all that Julie and Zabina have their feud going, I haven't the slightest doubt they'd both gang up against me if any real conflict arose, unless I looked exceptionally useful to one of them as something to use against the other. And maybe not even then. I get the feeling the Marquis likes her servants to pretend to some fellow-feeling.

When Zabina returns to the apartment--about the space of time it'd take to get down to the garage, discover the missing keys, and return, I'd call it--the keys are lying in the center of the cleared table, and Julie's sprawled across a couch with her laptop balancing against her bent knees. "Forgot your keys?" she asks the Lilim, without looking up.

"That would be one possible conclusion." Zabina scoops up the keys, and sweeps right back out of the apartment.

It's just as well I don't have anything I care about in my pockets. Not that I ever do, really. Zhune broke me of that habit a long time ago. There's no point in getting attached to things. What doesn't break gets left behind, or disappears when I'm not paying enough attention.

"One of these days," Trey says, drying his hands as he returns to the space with the couches where Julie and I are at some sort of theoretical work, "she'll catch you doing that, and break your wrist."

"She's welcome to try," Julie says. "If she wants to be taken seriously as a Magpie, she ought to put some more _effort_ into the basics." She pulls her feet back to make room for her Bandmate beside her on the couch, then slides her feet into his lap the instant he's seated. "You're with me on this, Leo, aren't you?"

I shrug, and drop my eyes back to the paper in front of me. One of the better blueprints, something you could use to reconstruct the actual building and not just use as a map to the layout, and thus more relevant than the sketchier papers. It bears some serious consideration. "I leave that kind of theft to my partner."

"But a demon should be able to _notice_ it happening, don't you think?"

"Sure," I say, and make a minute pencil mark on the blueprints for later reference. "Though it's easier to have someone else watching out for you than trying to track everything around you at once and alone. If your Shedite were better at his job, he would've spotted the lift when it happened."

"Aw, Gee's just a kid," Julie says. "He's got an excuse for being a little behind. Zee's been with Theft for, what, eighty-some years now? She should be caught up by now."

I'm sketching out things irrelevant to work on the graph paper. Ideas of my own, nothing to do with this project. I drag an eraser over that before it can distract me further. Maybe they're right about needing periodic breaks. Even with Ylva's unreasonable expectations in that one Role, I had about twelve hours a day to do nothing but stare at the television and not think about work. "She came from Greed?"

"Mm _hm_. The boss ends up with a lot of people who spent time with other Words first. Trey came from Lust, and Gee came from Factions." I catch the look the other Impudite gives her, though it's brief and vanished in an instant. I don't think he much wanted that brought up in front of strangers. "And then you're from Fire, right?"

"Right. By way of the War." I swap my notebooks around before I can be tempted to spend more time on drawing I shouldn't be doing. Lined paper won't distract me that way. "And you?" I don't much care about the answer, but she's set up the conversational line with the expectation that I'll ask, and I might as well play along.

"I've always been with Theft," she says. "I can't imagine working for another Word, most of them are so _boring_. We get to have fun. You should come to the club with me tonight. Trey can watch the place, he won't mind."

"Thanks," I say, "but I have work to do."

"It's not going anywhere, Leo."

No, but I am when I get it done. What are the chances that she'd accept the basic expression of _I don't do clubs_ as justification for turning down her offer? Anthony never did, and look where that got me. (Even if I shouldn't hold him against all other Impudites. But he was a useful learning experience in that regard.) "Let me see how far I get by the time you're heading out."

That she does accept.

And I get through a fair amount over the next four hours, as near as I can figure my pace on this sort of thing, but it's not like she can tell from the outside. The outside must be boring--enough so that I wonder at them taking up on the couch where we're facing each other, instead of at my back, but maybe that's an even less exciting view, or they figure it's a bad idea to sit directly behind the edgy Calabite--because I'm mostly staring at paper and occasionally making notes.

That said, the _work_ remains interesting. Now that I have the broadest sorting settled, I can start focusing on the actual details. And these are clearly not residences, or at least not primarily so, whatever the purpose of these buildings. That makes them a little more challenging; most of my official design work was low-income housing. But that also makes them more entertaining, because these aren't stacks of identical tiny apartments with claustrophobic headspace. Some of these rooms are odd, and some of the blueprints that give information about wiring suggest enormous amounts of power being pumped through here. At a hazy guess, I'd call this industrial.

Well. Industrial Espionage. It's to be expected. Lightning and Technology layouts must make up a good portion of what I'm sorting through, which explains why she wanted me to categorize them. Pick out commonalities in how they build their labs, or the human labs they control, and then use that set of information to assess places for infernal or angelic influence. That's a clever sideways approach to the usual methods for working out where the celestials are and what Word they belong to; I have to admire the Marquis for coming up with the idea at all. Though it's the sort of thing I'd have expected from her more if she already had someone on staff with this kind of skill, and I'm not sure how she found out I have it.

Gossip does get around in Stygia. I suppose she has enough staff to pick up on that sort of thing and sift it for the details she might find useful. Or she could send someone to the Lilim in Shal-Mari, to stand in the same line I did once and say, hey, point me at someone with a background in architecture who's working for a friendly Word. To which Ash's replacement at the informational booth would take a small Geas and pull up my file, right there.

I don't know. Maybe. But it doesn't seem likely. As best as I've been able to piece together--which is not easy, because he will not talk about it directly, even when I ask--Zhune and Henry moved to another _continent_ to get away from the Marquis. Marquises, even, since there were two at the time. When she pulled him back in, she handed him (which meant us) an assignment with a high chance of death, and then didn't even pay. Somehow I have a hard time seeing this job, less than a year later, as some sort of unfortunate coincidence.

All of which means that I'm deep in thought, but on matters of personal risk assessment rather than architecture, when Julie springs to her feet and stretches dramatically. "Clubbing," she says firmly. "Before I go absolutely mad. Come with me, Leo, you've been at that all day."

"It's my job," I say, "and I have lots left to do."

"Which can wait!" She offers me a hand, in such a charmingly casual manner that it will make me look like a sullen brat not to take it. "It'll be fun. I'll introduce you to whatever sort of person you find prettiest and we can bring them home and have fun and kick them out again before Zee gets back to make faces over it."

"I don't really have the clothes for it."

"You're not _that_ far off, it just makes you look..." She snaps a gesture off with one hand, all wrist-work where Trey makes sweeping gestures and Zhune tends to motion with fingers alone. "Like you're not too invested in the scene. There to play support for a friend. Some people go for that, if, let's be honest, not always exactly who you might _prefer_. What's your favorite type?"

"Not human," I say, because _Balseraphs_ is somewhat more to the point than anyone here needs to get from me tonight. "Sorry. Clubbing's just not my thing."

"That only means you haven't been to the right clubs," Julie says. "Or with the right people. You've been to some, right?"

"Yes." I spin the pencil between my fingers so that I won't snap it. It hasn't crumbled enough to deserve spoiling yet, though it's looking more chewed than anything I've done to it directly can justify. "There was this one Impudite of Lust who took me to a nice club where he knew the owner, and that particular trip ended with disturbance and nearly getting jumped by the Game."

"Definitely the wrong people," Julie says. "What you should do--" She stops short because Trey has unwound from his place on the couch far enough to reach out and poke her between the shoulder blades. "--well, maybe another night," she says. "No pressure!" And with an Impudite-appropriate smile, she spins away, moving to the music in the one earbud she still has plugged in, to change in her room.

"She assumes that everyone will like what she does, if she just presents it the right way," Trey says, and he has a wry sort of smile for me that I cannot entirely trust. Maybe I can't trust it at all. Zhune and I have tag-teamed people before when we're doing a con, and if this isn't exactly the good cop/bad cop routine, it's still near enough to make me wonder. "Though if you do want clubbing clothes, we can pick some up tomorrow."

"In this body? I don't think so."

"If you prefer another vessel," Trey says, which reminds me that I ought to be a bit less frank with these people, "why not swap? There's no disturbance around here right now, and no one would mind."

I find I'm tapping the pencil against my notebook. Same rhythm Zhune uses when he's thinking of what to say next. "Zabina would probably try to stuff that one into more formal clothing too."

Trey opens his mouth, then snaps it shut again. _That_ was a comment being carefully unsaid, and I wonder if it's that an Impudite doesn't consider jeans and a stupid clingy long-sleeved shirt very formal. Even if he's wearing something more casual still, and the Lilim didn't harass _him_ about that. "She might," he says at last, in good cheer. "Never mind. But you should take a break. If you want to hide in our room until Julie's out, she's less likely to try pushing again. It's partly because if she goes out alone, instead of in company, she has to check in regularly. Standard safety precaution, and not so great for getting smashed or spending a few hours at someone else's place, pretending to be completely fascinated with them."

I'd say he could go with her himself, but that'd bring up the awkward point that no one trusts me to watch the apartment. What with being the contractor who needs babysitting, and not a proper servant. Employee. Whatever.

But I can't hold the babysitting against Trey. He's not being a jerk about it so far. "Good idea," I say, and tidy up my work briefly before heading to the bedroom to--okay. To hide. But I have books and a phone, and those can keep me busy for hours.

It might be nice to distract myself, anyway. Not think about anything outside the room for a while. It's probably not a good plan, but nice things so seldom are.


	10. An Interlude, In Which I Grapple With Technology

When the phone rang, Ash was on his fourth straight hour of tedious, fiddly data analysis on third-tier files. Not the big important exciting files, and not ones that people wanted urgently, but the kind of files that were just important or time-critical enough that _someone_ had to tidy them up and make giant handfuls of raw data look respectable and meaningful to clients. And when you owed enormous stacks of debt to Syntyche, sometimes "someone" meant you. Him. He noted the time for his break logs, and had the call picked up by the middle of the second ring. "Hello, Ash here!"

"Hey, Ash," said one of his favorite voices, in his second-favorite variation. "Busy?"

"Not so busy I can't chat." Ash left the laptop of eternal boredom at the desk he'd finally set up in the bedroom, and padded over to the bookshelf to see what titles he might bring up. If Leo asked. "What's up?"

"Not much." But that was said in the tone of voice that didn't mean it, and meant something more like _I'm trying to decide how much I'll tell you._ Ash liked that one. It meant the resulting conversation would be full of interesting elisions and inaccuracies for him to spot and come up with theories about.

"Not much is fine," Ash said. He laid his fingertips to the spine of a book. "I finally got to _The Mill on the Floss_ , but it was sort of a let down. The beginning had all this promise, then it just...fell apart at the end. This kid looked like she might be something exceptional! Or exciting! But instead it turns into bog standard 'be in constant dread of what other people say about you' by the end, which I don't mind exactly in general, but I wanted more. The last scene was great, but even so."

"George Eliot's brilliant, but that doesn't mean she's always fun to read. Did you try _Middlemarch_ yet?"

"Not yet. That's next on my list, but work's been ridiculous lately." Ash pulled the book down into his lap, tucking his feet beneath him on the couch. "They keep expecting me to do work." Which got a chuckle out of Leo, and that was always nice. "What about you? Between jobs?"

"Not exactly. Doing contract work. I'm holed up in an apartment with a bunch of strangers, trying to figure out if they're going to pay me this time. Their track record in that area is not great so far."

"Strangers? That can be rough. No Habbies, I hope."

"No, thank god." Which was a peculiar expression coming from a demon, but less so on the corporeal. Leo was good at the whole human act when he bothered to try, which was only some of the time. "Some Impudites, one of your sisters. No one's trying to hassle me yet, aside from making me dress up in stupid clothes. Apparently it's part of the job requirements."

"Stupid clothes?" Ash flipped the book open to a random page. "What kind of stupid clothes?" He dropped his eyes to the text, picking up in the middle of a chapter.

_Life did change for Tom and Maggie; and yet they were not wrong in believing that the thoughts and loves of these first years would always make part of their lives. We could never have loved the earth so well if we had had no childhood in it,--if it were not the earth where the same flowers come up again every spring that we used to gather with our tiny fingers as we sat lisping to ourselves on the grass; the same hips and haws on the autumn's hedgerows; the same redbreasts that we used to call "God's birds," because they did no harm to the precious crops..._

The author probably had the right of it for humans, but he didn't think she knew much about demons. He loved the earth well enough without having been raised in it, and his childhood--if he could really call his early years that--in Shal-Mari hadn't engendered any deep low for that city inside him.

"Blouses. Boots with _heels_ , I don't know what I'm supposed to do in those if someone jumps me. Shriek and call for the cops, I guess. I did fend off the suggestions of skirts."

Ash imagined that Leo's female vessel would look adorable in skirts, and knew better than to say so. "How corporate. No wonder you're annoyed. How long are you stuck there?"

"Until the job's done. No idea how long that's going to take; my early estimate is...days. At least. Though they have to let me leave the apartment every three days, so _that's_ something. What are you working on?"

"Boring stuff. Read a list of seventy Needs read and locations and dates for a given person, try to impose a narrative on it without extrapolating so far that I'm giving the client bad information." Ash flipped to another page of the book, and drew an afghan (hand-made, exclusive, local, expensive, worth every dollar) over his knees. "Stop by the next time you're in the city, and I can show you how it works on one of the bottom-level files, if you're curious."

"I was in the city just recently. Day before yesterday, I guess, since it's after midnight now." (By more than three hours, which made Ash wonder if Leo was on the West Coast.) "I would've stopped by, but then the contract work came up and--you know how Zhune is, when there's a deadline."

Dragging his partner away by the ear, just about. Djinn. Ash did not know what some of his sisters saw in them. "Next time, then."

"I'll try." There was one of those thoughtful pauses. Leo's pauses in conversation always had a flavor, and this one's flavor was _thinking_. "You track who requests what files, don't you?"

"As an organization? Of course. More data is always better. From most perspectives, that is. When I'm the one sorting through it, I don't always feel the same way." Ash closed the book over his finger, and smiled up at his ceiling. The expression would come through in his voice. "Let me guess. You're wondering who's looking at your files?"

"It _did_ spring to mind," Leo admitted. It was always a delight to get a step ahead of his questions. "How much does that sort of thing cost?"

"It depends on who's been looking. Some people work through proxies, or pay a little extra to not have their queries come up on the list unless the person querying pays even _more_ extra, and...there's a price sheet I can send you, if you want. It's a little complicated."

"Never mind," Leo said. "Maybe I should just ask you for the general gossip about someone instead. I'm not very in-touch with this kind of thing."

"Leo," Ash said, "are you asking me for a freebie?" And he couldn't help but grinning into the air as he listened to that pause.

"I may well be," the Calabite admitted. "Is that against the rules?"

"Only if I give you actual file data. What I can come up with on my own from memory and chatter, that isn't confidential, well. They can't regulate what's in our heads." Even if he suspected Syntyche would have liked to find a way to corner the market on that, too. "Tell you what. Email me a list, and--" He stopped, because there was a surprised sort of sound on the other end that his comment couldn't have prompted. "Everything okay?"

"I think so," Leo said. "One of the Impudites seems to have sent a picture to my phone."

"You're getting a better quality of phone than usual. A picture of them doing what?"

"It's some ridiculously complicated expensive piece of tech that probably won't last the week. Part of the job. It's a picture of her at the club, making faces at the camera. Phone. Whatever." There was a distinctly bemused note to the Calabite's voice.

"That's Impudites for you," Ash said. He pulled his afghan-covered knees to his chest, and rested his chin on them. Comfortable and cozy, and entirely surrounded by what he liked and what was his. The best situation to be in, aside from the exact same with good company right beside him as well. "Like I was saying, email me a list. Or text me one, if you can figure out how to make your phone do that. I'll take a look when I'm not so busy, and give you the gist of the gossip for anyone I've heard of before."

"Thanks," Leo said. (This flavor of pause: hesitation in deciding whether or not he wanted to try something with an element of risk attached.) "...go ahead and, I don't know, text me too if you feel like. I need to figure out how to use the phone, and if I'm going to have the same number for more than a few days, I might as well get some use from it."

"I will," Ash said. "Want pictures?"

"Will they be pictures of what you're eating?"

"Only if I'm eating something really interesting and photogenic."

"As the spirit leads you," Leo said dryly, and Ash laughed. "Sure, send whatever photos you feel like, but keep in mind the people I'm working for can probably check anything on this phone."

"I wouldn't send anything I wanted to keep secret from Theft or the Game or Technology over unsecured lines anyway," Ash said. "Standard security precaution. Good luck with the contract work."

"Thanks," Leo said. "And you with yours."

"Oh, I'll _try_."

Which wasn't true. There was no point in trying to have fun with the boring type of work. But it was a nice sort of thing to say at the end of a call, especially to a friend who needed some cheering up. And Leo always needed more cheer in his life.


	11. In Which A Normal Morning Occurs, For Whatever Definition Of "Normal" These People Appear To Be Using

Julie swans back into the apartment around six in the morning, reeking of alcohol and cigarette smoke and sex and what cannot possibly be her perfume. I would not be caught dead in what she's wearing, but it's still evidence of better taste than that scent would imply. "Back at work already?" she asks me, as she glides past what's become my territory at the coffee table towards the bathroom. (Was it really the brightest move I've had, to set up between two couches, where it's easy to get surrounded and or just have someone staring at the back of my neck?) "Don't work too hard, Leo. That's a fast trip to boredom and..." She snaps one of those arch gestures, and matches it to a grin over shoulder at me from the bathroom doorway. "Missing stuff."

"I'll be sure to watch for signs of boredom," I say. She laughs, and closes the door.

She didn't bother Trey about doing too much work, but I'm not sure he is working. It's hard to tell what someone is doing with a tablet from the other side. When I gave up on reading and set back to work an hour ago, he was already poking around at that. I can't imagine he's having a lot of fun, babysitting the unexciting Calabite all night, but he'll just have to cope. I do not intend to do anything _exciting_ on this job if I can help it. Exciting is for Tether jobs and vacations, not contract work with unreasonably picky aristocrats. Who to date have not ever paid for work done.

I should let that go. The greater the power differential among demons, the less little issues like fairness and reputation matter to the people on top.

Guo and Zabina get in an hour or two later. The Shedite's in a new host, an older man than before with clothes that aren't so upscale, and he has to go stand in front of Julie and be appraised properly while the Lilim disappears into her bedroom for...whatever she does on break. Unless that was break. Not going to ask.

Trey grabs his jacket and an umbrella while Guo's being interrogated on how he chose the latest host. "What kind of coffee do you like?" he asks me.

It's not that hard to tear my attention away from work to focus on him. Truth be told, I was keeping an eye on what he was up to. "Generally, I don't."

"Then come along and pick out something you do like," he says, "or you'll keep getting whatever the person bringing coffee _thinks_ you prefer, and you don't want to know what Julie would pick."

The mind recoils from the very concept. I pull on those stupid boots, and follow him out, and try not to notice that I get an approving glance from the Lilim. Probably on account of having remembered to shower and change my clothes, so that I look exactly like she dressed me up to be, but still _tidy_.

Which is none of her business anyway.

We take the stairs down, and I finally get to see the lobby of this place. Old enough to be tiled in marble that's seen better days, but maintained properly, even if the desk for a lobby clerk is clearly vestigial at this point. Trey holds the door open for a man trying to wrestle an enormous stroller through the door and hold a leash at the same time; I end up doing dog retrieval when it turns out terriers are better at escaping confinement than babies are. Fortunately, the dog isn't the snappy sort, and I get its leash tied to the stroller handle while Trey makes ridiculous faces at the infant.

"Can you even get any Essence out of those?" I ask him, once the lobby's clear again.

"Sure. They don't hold much, but neither do most adults on any given day." He cracks open the umbrella, and holds it up at the doorway so that I can step under it beside him.

Convenient for speaking privately. And it's a nasty damp drizzle outside that I'd rather not have running down my neck. But sharing an umbrella with this Impudite reminds me of Zhune, and I shouldn't even be thinking about him when it hasn't been three days yet. When he's most likely holed up with one of his many old friends, doing whatever it is that he likes to do when I'm not around.

I have no idea what he likes to do when I'm not around, aside from have sex with various women, demonic and otherwise. And even that he used to invite me to join in on.

Well, he had a very long life before I ever appeared, and I'm sure he has plenty of hobbies to indulge in during my absence. Much like I don't need him breathing down my neck constantly. There's plenty for me to do without him, and I got in six hours of reading last night without anyone harassing me about it.

I also seem to have walked a good block downhill in heels, on wet pavement, and it's a good thing there's a sturdy Impudite standing next to me to grab if I trip. Trey's being polite enough about the silence. Or he has some private thoughts of his own to run through.

"We passed the coffee shop," I point out, after we cross the street.

"It's just a Starbucks," he says. "If we bring back drinks from there, Zabina will--okay, she won't _actually_ make faces, or say anything, but she'll disapprove. Silently."

"And we must all fear her silent disapproval. How does it end up being expressed? She forces you to buy _more_ clothing?"

Trey smiles at me sidelong. "No, that's how she expresses silent disapproval of your fashion choices. If she disapproves of your coffee choices, you end up being emailed helpful information about quality coffee and marked local maps."

"Since she doesn't have my email address, I'm safe." A horrible thought strikes me. "Wait, am I supposed to be checking email on this phone?"

"Probably," he says, and tilts the umbrella my way to let another umbrella-wielding man pass on the narrow stretch of sidewalk. His hair's dripping by the time he moves the umbrella back in place. "But if it's urgent, people will text or call. Still, you should check your inbox periodically. The boss might send along more paperwork. If so, forward it to me, and I'll get it printed. That's probably easier than trying to get your phone to talk to the printer directly through the network."

"Yeah, I'll take your word for it on that one."

"Sometimes I miss the days before computers," Trey says. He shoves damp hair out of his face, and makes what's nothing more than keeping water from dripping into his eyes look stylish. That's Impudites for you. "People didn't expect instant communication or response, and if someone wanted to send a passive-aggressive reminder, they had to write the thing out. Though Zabina was usually up for having a secretary write out passive-aggressive notes and sending them across continents when the situation really called for it. You sort of have to admire that level of dedication."

"Or something."

"Or something," he agrees cheerfully. "Mind your step."

A good warning, as the quirky independent coffee shop we're entering has a quirky independent uneven front step that's a lawsuit waiting to happen. The walls inside are covered with terrible local art and hand-made signage that makes me long for a diner. Those will usually give me a menu and not try to sell me on their atmosphere in the process.

At the counter, Trey runs through five orders in quick succession. (I'm almost certain I know who the obscenely complicated one belongs to.) Then he turns to me, and nods to the high board I haven't been looking at, with all the drink options. "Found anything you like?"

Not really, but I'm trying to be amenable. It's more likely to make me look vulnerable and easy to harass than it is to make any demon hesitate to harass me in the first place, but with this group, maybe it'll make them forget I'm the outsider long enough to let me escape without too much trouble. "Give me a cup of steamed milk with more cinnamon syrup than anyone should ask for in one drink."

"Can do," says the barista, who is either a morning person or highly caffeinated. Probably both.

Then ten minutes later we're trudging back uphill. The pavement's no less wet than before, and my presumably classy boots are proving a challenge. Another inch of heel and I would go barefoot rather than deal with the constant, infuriating tweak to my natural sense of balance. How does anyone expect to run away from trouble in this kind of thing? And now I'm holding two carriers of drinks, so if I fall over, I can't even grab Trey to stay upright.

I spend two blocks concentrating on not falling over. The Impudite does not hassle me about this, and keeps the umbrella up, so that's acceptable.

"What does Guo get up to during the day?" I ask.

"Research, practicing the whole passing for human thing. Why do you ask?"

I nod over to where the Shedite walks, across the street. "Just wondering, since he's out and in another host. I thought he was going to keep the latest one for longer."

Trey looks that way. "How can you tell, if he's in a new host?"

It would be rude to say, _How can you not?_ I would've expected an Impudite to pay more attention to this kind of thing. "The way he walks. Amount of personal space he considers appropriate around strangers. How he holds his shoulders. I suppose it could be someone else in the neighborhood that moves similarly, but that didn't seem likely."

"I guess Julie didn't approve of the latest host," Trey says, with a flicker of a frown.

"Is she likely to approve of anything Zabina picks out?"

"Not lately." Trey's smile is wry, and he shrugs. "They'll get along better once things are more...settled."

There are questions I want to ask about that situation. It's none of my business. Getting caught up in office politics is the last thing I need right now.

So I don't ask questions. That's usually safest. Don't ask for information, don't ask for permission, don't engage with anything that might be dangerous. Which is nearly everything, around demons. But we can talk coffee orders and the weather. No one's likely to murder anyone else over that.

I did see two Magpies come to blows over a discussion of the weather once, but that's what happens when you put two Habbalah in the same room for more than an hour anyway.

Back inside--I wonder why Trey always takes the stairs, when there's an elevator handy, but I'm not about to complain--we end up in the usual hallway, and he takes up one cardboard holder with two drinks. "Time for fun with progress reports," he says, moving towards the Marquis's door. I take the hint, and get back inside the other apartment before the wrong person catches sight of me standing in the hallway. I don't want to get called in for a progress report until I have real progress _to_ report.

"Gee's out," Julie tells me, as soon as I'm inside. "I told him to bring back someone cuter. Or richer. You can put his drink in the fridge. Did you remember to get the soy milk in mine?"

I stash the Shedite's drink in the fridge as requested, and then set Zabina's down beside her laptop, Julie's at the end table beside the place she's taken on the couch, and mine on the coffee table last. They can decide for themselves if this sequence is a statement about hierarchy or a convenient line of direction between the front door and where I'm working.

"We should get you some clubbing clothes, Leo," Julie says, just as I'm flipping open my notebook again.

And I can't figure out if that's Impudite fashion obsession or a dominance move. Or, if it's the latter, whether it's aimed at me or Zabina. Well played, Julie. Points there.


	12. An Interlude, In Which Time Passes

On the second evening, Lanthano left Guo to the babysitting. Not ideal in several different ways, but Yuliang and Zabina both had work to do in the evening, and he couldn't shadow the Calabite constantly. It would become obvious, and uncomfortable thereby. The last thing to do to a Calabite with a Djinn partner would be to _cling_.

Besides, people appreciated more what they had to put some work into acquiring. If he couldn't convince Leo to seek him out first a few times, then he wasn't half as skilled at handling damaged people as he liked to consider himself. (What a terrible thought that was. Wouldn't Chaixin be disappointed in him? And worse yet, the thought of failing in what Daosheng had taught him to do, back when he was nervous and damaged and in need of coaxing himself.) It was difficult to feel a need for someone who was always there.

He spent half the night with Yuliang, enough to keep her satisfied, and then excused himself to track down a 24-hour coffee shop where he could observe people without being expected to socialize directly at every minute. Crowds of humanity pleased him as scenery, but he didn't want to run up and hug every blessed one of them. It was exhausting and shallow. A thousand friends who'd do you little favors weren't worth as much as ten who'd help you bury a body, no questions asked. (Though it had only come up once, and he'd called in a coworker for that. Best to keep some business inside the company.)

At the shop, he did a few hours of work to justify time he meant to take off later. Charmed a few people in passing, until he had refilled all his reserves; whatever Zabina was doing at nights, it required fascinating amounts of Essence. Reread the file on Leo, to consider how to handle that. There was a fine line between attentive and creepy, and crossing it once was enough to move the line in even more restrictive directions.

Under the circumstances, bringing the Calabite a few good books seemed too near the _how could you tell_ reaction when all he wanted was _how thoughtful_. He wasn't sure where to buy books at four in the morning in Seattle, in any case.

But it was easy to pick up another pack of cigarettes and a decent lighter on the way back to the apartment.

If Leo had been visible when he walked into the apartment, he would've dropped the items off in passing. Drop them nearby and keep walking, talk about something else entirely. But Guo was huddled up in a kitchen chair on the far side of the apartment from the bedroom door, and _that_ was closed.

"Problem?" Lanthano asked the Shedite.

"I was only trying to be nice," Guo muttered. "She's so unreasonable."

Lanthano pulled up another chair to sit down near the kid, and prepared to do damage control. (And was, in passing, grateful for a third common language among everyone in the apartment, as this one Leo didn't understand.) "Tell me what happened."

"Nothing! I only--you said to be nice. Yuliang says to be nice, Zabina says it, _everyone_ says I should get along with people, and I was trying." Guo waved an arm and clipped it against a counter, wincing at the impact. "These arms are too long. I'd rather have a smaller host. Someone shaped like _her_ vessel. It's nice. That's all I said, I told her that I liked her vessel. Isn't that nice?"

"It can be," Lanthano said. He rested his chin on an arm dangled across the back of the chair. "Sometimes it's not what you say, but how you say it."

"And I was careful," Guo said in a low voice. He frowned off at the door, shoulders hunching up towards his ears. "I checked with this host. So I could get the cultural cues right. I did it just like this man would have, for telling someone who looked like that how he thought it was a nice look."

Lanthano put on a good sympathetic expression, because covering his face with his hands would not help Guo learn or solve anything else. Even if it might make him feel a little better. "That's not a bad approach for when you're dealing with humans," he said carefully. "Even humans who aren't very good at it know the cultural basics. But you can't interact with another demon the way a human would with another human who looked like that vessel. The hierarchies are all different. A man like this, talking to a young woman like that, would be implying...status differences that you haven't earned, Guo, and assume to get a level of respect that a Calabite who's been with Theft longer than you, and done much more corporeal work, won't give you."

"Oh," Guo said, and his chin tilted down until he was staring at the floor. "I'm not good with people. I'm not any good with people, and I'm trying, but I'm so _bad_ at it, I'm sorry."

"You're getting better." Lanthano stood up, and patted the Shedite's host on the head. The look he got in response was terribly grateful. His cat never looked at him that way. "We make mistakes, and we get better. And you don't seem to be bleeding, so she can't have been that upset."

"No," Guo mumbled, "but she said that if I didn't back off she'd feed me my own tie."

"It's a terrible tie," Lanthano said, "so no great loss." Which got a wan smile out of the Shedite. Good enough for the moment. "Go buy ingredients for dinner, and pick up coffee on the way back. I'll talk her down, okay?"

"Okay." 

Lanthano hung his jacket up, leaving cigarette pack and lighter in the pockets. There were times for casual presents, and this was not one of them. At the bedroom door, he tapped on it twice, then leaned against the wall and waited.

The door cracked open fractionally, then swung open further. The Calabite was down to jeans and blouse, barefoot on the hardwood floors and rumpled in a manner that suggested nothing more interesting than her own aura of entropy had occurred in the room.

"Can I come in?" Lanthano asked, spinning around to face her in a move that would've done Yuliang proud.

"It's your room as much as mine," she said, and stepped out of the way.

"Sure. But sometimes a door is closed for a reason." He pulled open a drawer, sorting through what shirts he'd laid out there with his back to her. "Was the kid hassling you?"

"Not really."

He stripped off his shirt, and held up one replacement for consideration. Too flashy. More the clubbing look than what he wanted for work at home. "He seems to be under the impression that he upset you."

"I'm pretty sure I can cope with one undersocialized Shedite."

He pulled out a better shirt for his purposes. Long-sleeved and a pale maroon, in a way that said _comfortable_. The apartment needed more of that message sent around. "I'm sure you can. But if he's bothering you, tell me about it. I'm supposed to be teaching him manners. Can't do that if I never hear about his mistakes, can I?" He pulled the shirt over his head, and looked back at her as he tugged it into place. "He also seems to be under the impression that you wanted to throw him out a window the first time you met."

"No," she said, "that was the second time." A smile ghosted across her face. "Besides, I wouldn't throw him out a window. Have you seen the hosts he keeps choosing? Couldn't lift them. If I was annoyed enough to do violence, I'd remove the floor under his feet instead."

Lanthano gave her a more solid smile in return, and sat down on the edge of the bed. "Well, if he deserved it... But the residents of the next apartment down might have an opinion on the matter."

"That's the problem with humans," Leo said. "Always having _opinions_ on things." She shrugged, back still up against the wall and arms folded over her chest. "If he can keep his opinions to himself, I can leave him alone in turn. People act like I'm going to remove fingers if I'm not watched, but I am not, oddly enough, all that fucking violent."

"I know," Lanthano said. He waited half a breath for her expression to shift, edging towards suspicion. "The Marquis would never have hired you if she didn't believe you had enough self-restraint to place nicely with others. Even...awkward, annoying, poorly trained others. Look. Guo is, believe it or not, trying to get along with you, even if he's wildly incompetent at it. He was raised by Factions, and 'raised' is too kind a word for what they did to him."

"Which was?"

Questions he could work with. "Not my story to tell," Lanthano said, and shrugged one shoulder. "He'll probably tell you some time when he's less scared of you. He just wants--attention and affection and to feel like what he does matters. Like any other kid. I don't know if you run into many of those in your line of work."

"Less than I did in other careers," Leo said. She stared off to the curtained window. Then, that unspoken thought dealt with, she looked to him again. "Don't worry. I've dealt with worse brats."

"I wasn't too worried," Lanthano said, rising to his feet. "Want to get out of the place this afternoon? I'd be going stir-crazy after this much time in here, and I think it's coming up on three days for you. We can cross the city and do something that involves neither paperwork nor computers. Nor, you know. Shedim."

"Would not mind," Leo said. Her smile was perfunctory.

Perfunctory was acceptable. Action could lead intention just as easily as the reverse.


	13. In Which I Maintain Control Of The Keys

In the parking garage, Trey holds up the keys to Zabina's rented BMW. (Acquired by asking nicely to borrow them, so it's clear that Lilim has nothing against Impudites in general. Just the one specific one.) "Want to drive, or navigate?"

"Seeing as I don't know where we're going..." I hold out a hand, and he tosses the keys my way. "Unless you want to wander the streets until we find decent barbecue, which is what would happen with me on navigation."

"You could ask your phone," he points out, once we're inside the car. He puts on his seatbelt promptly without any need to be hassled on this point. Some people understand basic road safety without constant reminders after all. "But I had a place in mind. You can pick a restaurant next time."

I pull out of the garage and into traffic, which is no worse than what I'm used to in a major city. "We could also drive outside of the city, turn around, and drive back. Just as good for keeping clear of the time limit."

"We could," Trey says, "but where's the fun in that? Besides, I'm in the mood for sushi."

"Never saw the appeal of raw fish."

"It's not all raw. And it's delicious when it's done right. Terrible otherwise, though." His attention's mostly on his phone and the road, with a few glances spared for me. "Maybe you haven't tried a decent version yet. If you don't like it, we can hit another place for lunch afterward. Right at this stop, then left at the next light."

"If I don't like it, I can cope with missing lunch. It's not like I need to eat." Or have a Role to maintain. That doesn't even bother me anymore. Who needs that kind of responsibility? All the day-in and day-out pretense for the sake of not even the humans who might notice, but the Symphony's fussiness about celestials wandering through the corporeal plane. I do not miss it. "You want sushi, we'll get sushi."

"It's just a thing," he says, with a lazy wave of his hand. "Go to a new city, eat at a restaurant serving food from another place entirely. Tacos in Hong Kong, hamburgers in Tokyo, biryani in Buenos Aires, Thai noodles in Cape Town. And you should never eat sushi in a city that's not on the coast."

"Your job keeps you moving?"

"Now and again. It's easier to get away with long absences these days. They don't fuck up the Role when it's plausible for a human with some cash to spend a month on another continent because of a high-paying short-term contract." He grins at me sidelong. "Chaixin's contracts always pay well. The only hard part these days is making sure I have someone lined up to water the plants and feed the cat while I'm gone."

"Why do you have a cat?"

"I could claim it's for Role maintenance and camouflage, but honestly, I just like cats. Left at the next light, then straight on for a while." He tilts his seat back a notch, and rests his head against his arm. "There's no reason _not_ to do what we like, so long as it doesn't interfere with the job, or what's the use of being a demon?"

"I always thought being able to blow things up with my mind was a nice perk," I say, which gets a laugh out of him. And diverts that line of conversation from things I'd rather not discuss.

The sushi place he's chosen turns out to be a tiny restaurant with a handful of tiny tables and a counter where you can watch men in white uniforms chop fish and wrap it in assorted things from close enough to have a personal relationship with your incoming lunch. Trey calls the tempura-coated rolls an abomination and recommends one to me in the same breath, and it turns out that if you coat raw fish and rice in batter and fry it, the resulting abomination _is_ to my taste.

The sake he recommends tastes like nothing I want to drink, so after one sip of his I leave him to it. Too early in the day for drinking anyway. (I mean, I've been drunk before noon before, but there were usually extenuating circumstances. All of which seem to have involved my partner.)

"I should do navigation," he says cheerfully in the car, on the way back. "They'll hold it against me if you get lost."

"I'm not going to get lost. Retracing the drive really isn't that hard. And I'm not the one who's tipsy." 

He holds up his thumb and forefinger fractionally apart. "I'll be over it by the time we're back. Then it's time to drop some Essence into getting more work done."

"Is there a deadline coming up?"

"Tomorrow's Friday," Trey says, "and the boss likes reports on Fridays." His mouth twitches. "Daosheng always did. So of course Chaixin does as well. It's good to have some stability." He fishes a cigarette and lighter out of his jacket pocket, gaze fixed on those. I know what that sort of thing means, and I turn my attention entirely to the road. "Anyway, it's not a real deadline. Have some sort of coherent statement to show you've been putting in work and not just staring at cat gifs."

"Does Julie send those to everyone?"

"There's no escaping them." He offers me a lit cigarette, and I accept that. Though I do roll down the windows, to reduce the chance of Zabina having one of those judgmental auras after her next use of the car. I'd rather take some rain spray than deal with the threat of another shopping trip. "I've told her, I have a cat. I don't need pictures of anyone else's cat. But no, this one is jumping in and out of a box in a _completely different_ way than the last one."

When we get back to the garage, the car does smell of cigarette smoke, but sometimes there's no hoping that. Maybe Julie will take it next and air it out.

#

What's left of the afternoon is spent in serious work all around, as near as I can tell. The Shedite vanishes to do whatever his host-hopping is for, and then everyone else throws Essence into their work. Not at the same time; it's an unspoken delicate scheduling, waiting for the echoes of the last burst to fade before the next person throws some in.

I end up spending four Essence on the same before sunset. To fit in, to show willing, to get a better report of my behavior to the Marquis if she cares about that sort of thing or asks about it... It's not like I'm using the Essence for anything else lately, anyway.

Dinner's as noisy as ever. I'm getting better at following the threads of conversation as they wrap over each other, and find myself defending the existence of tempura-battered sushi to Zabina, who appears to have opinions on the matter. If a demon can't enjoy an abomination of a food product once in a while, who can?

During the cleanup, Julie tries twice to lift the keys from me, and can't get a safe angle on me either time. The third time, she figures out that I'm using the work--clearing the table, putting away food, passing dishes to Trey for loading--as cover for my own defensive moves, and she stops outright to grin at me. "I need the keys, Leo," she says, and holds out a hand.

I drop them into her palm. "All you have to do is ask."

"It's early enough," she says, "that we could get you clothes for the club, if you want to come along."

"Thanks, but I have work to do. Already took a break earlier."

"Friday nights are better anyway," she says. I'm probably not supposed to notice the look she shoots at Trey. "So, tomorrow. We'll put together an outfit you like. It's a date."

She makes it out of the apartment before I can come up with a decent response to that one.

Zabina leaves with the Shedite skulking along in her wake. Which leaves Trey in the kitchen, and me with--well. Work to do. That was my excuse, so I drop back down at the coffee table to do exactly that. It's become a comfortable tool and a constant reminder of how I don't have a proper office anymore. A real architect doesn't have to sit on the floor to get work done. And a real architect doesn't just stare at other people's terrible not-to-scale drawings of layouts while trying to work out if a given mark is supposed to represent a door, window, or shelving unit.

Trey finishes up in the kitchen, and sits down across from me. On the floor, not on the couch, and waits there like he's got nothing better to do than lean against the couch cushions and wait for me to acknowledge him.

"First thing. A refill," he says, and offers me a hand. It takes me longer than it should, half a second, to work out what he means, and then offer my hand in return. He passes over three Essence. "Does that take you to full?"

"Yes, but I don't exactly need it right now."

"Having full reserves is safer," he says, with a shrug and a wry smile. "Company policy. One of the reasons the boss hires so many Impudites. Any time you're down more than one, tell me or Julie, and we'll fix that. Just one, might as well wait for sunset."

I tuck my hand back in my lap. "If it's policy, who am I to argue?"

"I know," he says, "it's all kinds of corporate, which isn't usual in Theft."

"I always figured someone had to do corporate theft." I'm spinning a pencil again, a sign of I don't know what anymore. "Never met them before, is all. If everyone working for the Marquis works white collar jobs, no wonder she hired us to handle that thing with the War." More like commandeered than hired, but who's counting?

"Not everyone," Trey says, with a quick smile that tells me he's not about to specify further. Fair enough. He nudges a paper a few centimeters so that he can prop his elbows on the edge of the table without touching any of the stacks I'm working on. Hands clasped, chin propped there, an entirely deliberate pose that isn't pretending to be otherwise. "Second thing. Could you watch the place for a few hours? I want to pick up a few things outside before shops close, that I didn't think to get while we were out."

The pencil snaps neatly in my fingers. "You're sure you're allowed to leave me without a babysitter?"

"I'm sure that if anyone shows up that you can't handle yourself, the two of us wouldn't have done much better on," he says. Which I do not entirely believe--well, I don't believe that _he_ believes it, even if I think it's largely true--but it's nice of him to say it. (And that means nothing. Impudites say nice things, because they want you to like them.) "You have my number if anything weird comes up. All you have to do is not leave the apartment until I'm back."

"I'll cope. Go get what you need."

"Thanks. Want me to pick up anything for you while I'm out?"

I'd know what to ask Zhune for. Or even Ash. (Or even Penny. I could lie to him outright, and he'd give me such a look, and then bring me back the right thing anyway.) With Trey, I don't know. "Grab me something to read. I went through the other books already, and if I try to read books on this phone, it'll die before Julie can send me another series of pictures of her making out with strangers in nightclubs."

"Sure," he says. "Anything specific?"

"Not those spy thrillers. The inaccuracies bug me."

"I suppose they would," he says, and his smile is--I don't know. Charming, I guess, because all Impudite smiles are charming, but nice in its own way, not that this matters. And I was telling the truth. I do have work to do.


	14. In Which Not Every Poor Choice Of Mine Results In Immediate Disaster

It turns out that I really can watch an empty apartment for three hours without disaster. Go figure. When Trey gets back, I'm at the point of nervous sorting of the remaining papers that I haven't nailed down yet. Most of what the Marquis gave me falls solidly into the Lightning or Technology camps, and a few are so weird (or poorly designed, and not in the way that implies a disconnect from reality like with some Tech designs, but garden-variety incompetence mixed with penny-pinching disregard for long-term stability) that I can move them aside as neither. But there's a good dozen that are borderline in some manner, and those I don't know what to do with. People in positions of authority don't like answers that sound like "I don't know" or "It depends" or "I need more information than this to give a solid answer." Most of them don't even like footnotes.

"Lend me a hand?" Trey asks, juggling more bags than I expected, so I leave off the pointless paper-shoving and help him with his groceries. And non-grocery items. Half of it appears to be the product of a trip to a liquor store, but there's a Barnes & Noble bag in there, and a suspicious number of bags from clothing stores. Well. Impudites. What can you expect?

When everything alcoholic is shoved in the fridge, he passes two bags to me. "Thanks. And if you want to do me a bigger favor, don't mention the trip to Zabina. She's a bit of a stickler for policy."

"Wouldn't dream of it." The first bag contains a half dozen books: three paperback bestsellers that I'd have to be dead bored to try, a collection of cat pictures, a Lincoln biography--I'm not sure what more there is to say about the man at this point, but that hasn't stopped anyone from putting out new books about him yet--and a book that claims to be about the emotional impetus to modern changes in architecture. Which argues that he put at least some thought into trying to find something I'd like.

"The one with the cats is for Julie," Trey says. "Though if you really want to keep it--" He grins when I slide it across the kitchen table to him. "Didn't think so. Anything you don't like, I'll give to Guo. He needs some more cultural immersion anyway."

"For North America? I thought most of you were focused elsewhere."

"We are," Trey says, "but he needs to figure out..." He swings an arm broadly to indicate the world at large. "Humans. Who don't know about Hell, or demons, or anything interesting, and can't be expected to act like they do. Shedim get a rough job of it, walking onto the corporeal; it's not like they can practice sitting in anyone's head back home."

"I guess so." And the Shedim who don't want to deal with that, who'd maybe rather not sit inside someone's head and drive them to ruin and madness, well, they don't leave Hell at all. Not without something odd happening. (Penny said that Eder's okay, and that's good, even if it's supposed to be anything but good for me, and it's best if I forget about that whole incident.) I pick open the other bag to find a shoebox waiting. Bad sign.

"It turns out," Trey says, "that you wear the same size shoes as Julie, at least in this vessel, so if you don't like them, they'll find another home." He gathers up the bags of clothing, and hauls them off to the bedroom without waiting for more response. I'm not sure if I should read that as disinterest in my reaction or an attempt to give me space, and it's not like I need some sort of consideration for my delicate feelings when it comes to opening a shoebox.

He got me boots. Stompy black ones, no more heel than any man might wear on the kind of boots you use for kicking people in the kneecaps. They're a touch girlier in design than I might like, but I suspect he couldn't find otherwise in a size this small. Not quite combat boots, but close.

I'm not sure if Zabina will object, but right now I don't care.

When he returns from the bedroom, he has a different shirt on. The Impudites both seem to go through two or three clothing changes a day; at this point I'm surprised they came with so little luggage, instead of so much. He gathers up the empty bags with the ones he's carrying, and shoves them all in the kitchen trash. "The shoes fit okay?"

"If you were a Lilim," I say, "I'd be concerned."

He grins back at me on the way to the fridge. "Still an Impudite. I could Charm you to prove otherwise, but most people don't go for that. You'll just have to take my word for it. Are you wrapped enough with work for the evening to take some time off?"

"I could go either way." I'm tired of fretting over these last dozen designs. I'm tired of hiding in the bedroom with books, even if there are new ones available. This whole situation makes me itchy between the shoulder blades, like there's someone staring there through a rifle scope. "From all the bags, I gather you bought these the new-fangled way with actual money, instead of swiping them."

"I don't do a lot of shoplifting," Trey says, pulling out a bottle of beer that I don't recognize. Unrecognizable labels are usually a good sign, and he follows that up with two glasses from a cupboard. "It doesn't usually seem worth the risk, especially with a Role to protect. But if it makes you feel any better, the credit cards are drawing on accounts funded almost entirely by illegal activities."

"Hey, so long as the Boss gets his due somewhere along the line, I'm happy." I accept the glass of beer he pushes my way, so I guess I am done with work for the night. "What are your wild and exciting plans this evening?"

"Depends," Trey says succinctly, and slurps beer down from his glass. "This...is not as good as the clerk promised, but she had a point about the cherry undertones, so I don't think I'm going to hold that against her. I have a few more bottles to try later tonight."

I try the beer, and it tastes fine to me. No idea what the clerk promised it would be, but it's got a nice bite to it, and as much walnut as cherry to the undertaste. "That's the plan for the evening? Drinking?"

"Drinking, watching movies on the computer, and whatever else I can get up to for passing a few hours." Trey shrugs loosely. "This is better than those nights when I have to fake sleep for hours, because of Role maintenance. Talk about a good reason to not have a live-in boyfriend."

"Among others." Though I suppose I can see the attraction for an Impudite. Extra Essence almost every day, someone to sweet-talk into doing the chores and paying attention to them all the time. Impudites want attention the way Balseraphs want respect. And tonight, I'm the only audience available. "I've had a roommate once or twice, but that never ended well."

"Oh? What happened?"

Well, there was the Habbalite of Fire who apparently ran screaming to Heaven at the first little problem. The Balseraph of the War who I had to betray. The Outcast Kyriotate of the Sword and that one ethereal, who I had to send away before I got them hurt. And we're not even counting Katherine, who was--herself. Exactly what a mortal child is supposed to be, and better than most of them. I shrug as well. "This and that. Maybe I'm just not good at living with other people over long periods of time."

"Don't you travel with a partner?"

"Yes, but that's different. That's not living together. There's no--space issue. It doesn't matter what space the other person takes up if there's no place that's your territory to argue over, and it doesn't matter what the other person gets their hands on if there's no long-term property to care about." It's hard to explain. I settle for drinking more of the beer. "What about you? Just the cat?"

"Just the cat," Trey says. "I'd show you pictures, but I wouldn't want to give you horrible flashbacks to the gif assault. And houseplants, but they're pretty low maintenance. I have this little courtyard in the back that's too cement-covered to be called a garden, but it's got walls for privacy, some potted plants, a lemon tree that I keep thinking is going to keel over, but it's lasted years now..." He sketches out on the kitchen table with a finger. "So when I look out the window of my bedroom, there are these leaves and branches, then the wall beyond. I like it. Nothing fancy like Zabina and Julie prefer, or some other people in the company, but I'd rather have cozy. There's enough room for company. A good basement for storing anything hot that we want to keep out of sight for a while."

"It sounds--" I am at a loss for the right adjective. _Nice_ is too banal and _cozy_ is repetitive and _boring_ is neither true nor polite, even if it's what I might say if I were having this conversation with Zhune in earshot. "Not much like Theft." Which is true, but probably still not polite.

"That's what Julie says. She'd rather couch-hop with friends, and keep a place mostly to store her clothes and toys. But there's nothing in Theft that says you can't have a home base, so long as you keep moving. It's a big city. There's plenty of room for moving and still being home to feed the cat." He laughs, slouching back in his chair. "Never mind about my _cat_. I'd ask what your place is like, to stop talking about mine, but since you don't do the Role thing... What do you do to while away the idle hours? It can't all be books."

I spend a lot of time getting drunk so that I don't mind when my partner has sex with me. I argue about movies with him. I destroy things because I'm bored, and then sit around feeling guilty about doing it, or angry at myself for caring about what I've broken when I should be able to break anything I want. And sometimes I drive us somewhere else, in a useless direction, just for the sake of something to do. "Books, conversation, petty theft, less petty theft. The usual."

"No clubbing?"

"No, and is there any way to get out of Julie's threat for tomorrow night?"

"Short of hitting Trauma," Trey says, "not that I can think of."

"I could break a leg."

"No luck. She knows the Song of Healing." Trey picks up his glass. "I'm going to watch a movie. If you don't like it, let me know, and I'll put on headphones."

"Do you mind people talking during the movie?"

"That's half the fun," he says, "if you're offering."

So I suppose I am. And there's plenty of room on one of those big expensive couches for us to take our respective seats with our respective beers and watch a laptop propped up on the coffee table, once I've moved some papers out of the way, without needing to bump into each other or retreat to opposite corners like we're worried that we might do so.

The movie's idiotic, the sort of action-and-suspense nonsense that Zhune likes in film and literature alike. By fifteen minutes in I'm calling out every error of fact that I've spotted, and Trey keeps pointing out when people don't _act_ that way, especially in crowd scenes. Halfway in he brings out another bottle of beer, which turns out to be not as hoppy or bitter as I'd like, but an astonishingly dark and sweet syrup that ought to be too much and is absolutely _perfect_.

The movie has a sequel. Two sequels. Each one's more inane than the last, though some of the explosions are good, and at one point an entire house goes down in dramatic implausible toppling disaster, which is _fun_ , even if they did it wrong. Which sends Trey off to the internet to pull out the details of how they shot that scene, and it turns out the movie destroyed an actual full house in a single take for the scene, which I have to admire, and there has been an awful lot of those big bottles of beer that split nicely between two people as we go along.

When the third movie is over, I am halfway through the story of that time I took down a set of law offices belonging to the Game before I remember that maybe I shouldn't be talking about that? But it's fine, because it's easy to pretend that I was working with a Shedite and some unspecified other demon, rather than Nik and Ferro, who were anything but demons in completely different ways. And it's still a pretty good story. Even the part with the Habbalite in the safe, or when I get sold out by Al, which hurt at the time, but hardly bothers me these days. She did what she had to, and she paid me back later. That's better than most people would've done. Most of Hell fucks you over and never acknowledges the debt, much less makes up for it.

And Trey looks reasonably impressed. Not gaping with wonder at my ingenuity or anything, but it's a good story, with a good explosion at the end. I wish I had video.

"Most of my stories," he says, "aren't that exciting. And don't end with quite that much murder."

"I wasn't murdering anyone," I point out. "What with that stupid Discord and all. It's a good thing that got yanked, because it was worse than--" It would be rude to complete that with what I was going to say. Worse than being an Impudite. "--some Discord. I didn't mind being Bound. That was even _useful_ sometimes. Not being able to let anyone die is never useful, except for giving optimistic angels entirely the wrong impression."

"Hazard of the trade," Trey says. "It's usually not too hard to disabuse them of the notion when it gets inconvenient, and sometimes it can even be useful. Looking sympathetic and harmless has saved my life at least once."

"It never seems to help me. They end up tracking me down and wanting to _talk_. And who wants that?" Except for Zhune, who wants to harass them and trap them and hurt them, and I don't see the point. It's for nothing but his own amusement, and if he really needs to be entertained, I'd rather he try other hobbies. "How hazardous is your job? I don't have a good sense for how it works generally in Theft, and--you're not generally in Theft, because ‘generally' means those idiot biker gangs and kids in fast cars, pretending that knocking over liquor stores means they're sticking to The Man and not just confusing everyone as to whether it's Wind or Theft causing stupid noise in a given area."

"We don't do a lot of that in this company," Trey says. He's collapsed into a corner of the couch by now, keeping his feet politely on his side of the dividing line between cushions that marks the center. We are so very polite here, in our respective corners and splitting every bottle evenly between us. Like we're matched up in some way that I don't think we really are. "There's some utility to those packs of kids, though. They pick up some good skills, learn how to handle the corporeal plane... The smart ones move on to better things, the dumb ones do themselves in before they get in the way of any real project, and they're such a useful smoke screen. Keeping everyone confused is part of the fun."

"The fun," I say, "is pulling off a job cleanly. Walking away alive with what I was sent in for in my pockets or my hands, and pursuit not too close behind."

"You're good at that," he says. "Look at how you did on the last job the boss gave you."

"That was a mess. That was anything but _clean_. Fuck, I still think that I wouldn't have been able to walk away from the Lightning strike team alive if that idiot Sparky I was conning hadn't talked her boyfriend into letting me go." I rest my head against the arm of the couch, and wish I had--other people here. Though I don't mind this person, Trey's fun to talk to, he doesn't _push_ the way some people do, it's only that I could be more honest around some people. Not Ash, I suppose, I always have to edit around him, and at least with someone else in Theft I don't have to be so circumspect about the details of jobs. "I still cannot believe Lightning is messing around with sorcery. Of all things for Heaven to get their hands into. But I suppose that was inevitable, it's too useful for Hell to keep control of it indefinitely. I don't know what your boss did with the information, but _someone_ ought to be paying attention to that. Can you imagine what would happen if Lightning started summoning demons?"

"It'd be a reason to keep true names a lot more secret," Trey says amiably. "But I'm not too worried about that. So many people on both sides consider all of Theft some sort of...annoyance. We're all biker gangs and robbing convenience stores, right? Why should they bother with us, when there are more important enemies to concentrate on?"

"Some day," I tell him, "people are going to figure that out. And then we'll all be in trouble. Trey's not your real name, is it? Any more than Julie is her name."

"No," he says, "though Guo's actually that. Unless you want to call him Gee, which he doesn't seem to mind."

"Unwanted nicknames are more Julie's thing, thanks. What's your actual name?"

"Lanthano," he says.

"That doesn't sound very much like it comes from where you're posted."

"That's because it doesn't," he says. "I picked it back in Hell long before I got a new Role and posting from the boss. (( -- )) You might as well call me Trey, while I'm here. How did you get a name like Leo?"

"My first supervisor." I push myself more upright for the explanation. "She liked astrological themes. Astronomical? Whatever. Though it's as much because she named me after this guy--his name was Levon, see, and he was the assistant who came before me. Was smart enough to try to get the fuck away from her, but not smart enough to pull it off, and he got disassembled by her Prince." How odd, that it's no longer "my Prince" or "our Prince" or "the prince that I used to serve" but just... _her_ Prince, that particular Demon Prince who is no more relevant to me anymore than Saminga or Vapula or Kobal. He never cared about me, and I eventually learned to return the favor. "Then the Forces got recycled into...me." I spread my arms, mostly in one direction. There's a couch back in the way in the other direction. "Not the weirdest way to come into existence. What about you? Made an Impudite, or fledged that way?"

"Made that way," he says. Trey, Lanthano... I'll go with Trey. I can pronounce that one properly. "Sometimes I think Andrealphus tosses off a dozen of those before breakfast, to fill out the ranks. I had a--supervisor, that's a good word for in English, I suppose. They took me to Earth on almost the same day I was made, to play Essence battery for them."

"And they were a terrible person," I say. "Because no one in Hell in charge of anyone else is anything but a terrible person."

"They were," he says. "Though there are exceptions. It didn't--work well." He picks up his beer. This glass is nearly empty again. "They sent me back to Hell, eventually. I was failing to meet expectations. It turns out that working in Shal-Mari's worse than the corporeal, which I suppose was the point they were making."

"And?" It's none of my business. I want to know, and it's really none of my business, and he would be entirely in the right to tell me so.

"And Daosheng bought me from that brothel in Shal-Mari," he says, "and brought me home to meet her partner, and I've been working for Theft ever since. Which is nothing but an improvement." He raises the glass as if it's a toast. "I owe them for everything. I was never going to end up anywhere I wanted to be with Lust, and good _riddance_ to that Word and that city and that whole way of viewing the world." There's a certain sincerity to how he downs the rest of his glass.

I lift my glass, and finish off the dregs within. Probably I'm past the point when I should have already stopped drinking, but I'm not yet at the stage where I can't walk, though it might be tricky to walk in an excessively straight line if other things were going on at the same time and required my attention.

"They're the worst friends to have," I tell him. "We couldn't be buddy-buddy with a Word that's less horrible? Like..." I snap my fingers, which takes me two tries, so there's manual dexterity going too. And by the time Trey's back with another bottle, and refilling our glasses--it's not best practice to keep drinking from the same glasses without rinsing them out, but fuck best practices when there's good beer and it means I don't have to stand up--I still haven't come up with another example. "Seriously, what are the Words that are worth being friends with? Besides Freedom, and we're already good there."

"Media?"

"Sure. Media. Why couldn't we be best friends with Media instead of Lust? They may show up to film your hilarious demise, but they're not likely to push you into it."

"It's a mystery to us all," Trey says. He stretches out further on the couch when he sits down this time, bare feet sliding just past the dividing line in the center. "Best not to question what Princes decide on. They have access to information we don't."

"And they can pull us apart if they get annoyed," I say, which is reminder enough to drink more beer. We may have finally worked our way down to the cheap stuff. The cheap stuff still isn't very cheap, and I wonder if Trey actually has a budget. There have to be limits on those cards, somewhere, but these people act like there's no reason not to buy whatever you want.

I could do that too, really. Zhune always has cash if I want. It's not often, and always temporary, that lack of money stops us from doing anything. But what's the point? If I can't carry it with me, there's no point in buying it. And the big cash payments always disappear into his stashes for emergencies. Whatever counts as an emergency. The only time I've seen him break into one was for that trip to the Marches, when I insisted we pull out some talismans, and he still only opened up the one.

Not that it matters, anyway.

I've missed something the Impudite said, and I think he noticed, because he nudges my knee with his heel. "Penny for your thoughts."

"That is either far too little, or far too much." And that's a joke that he won't get, and should not ever get enough context to understand. "It's nothing. This is good. I've had too much and I should stop after this glass, or I won't be sober enough to worry over work properly in the morning."

"Why," he says, "is it something that needs worrying at?"

"More or less. Did everything I could with the amount of information I was given, and all that's left is to sit there and wonder if your boss will be happy with the results. Does she like any results? Ever? I mean, I'd try my best regardless, it's, what do you call it, professional pride, but it's nice to know what to expect."

"She liked your results last time," Trey says. "That was good work."

"That was fucking sloppy work. I managed to run into an angel of Lightning who kills people with a yoyo, whose ex was working for the War, not that she was alone in _that_ inconvenient detail, and I spent most of a day lying my head off in four different directions and getting shoved around until I lucked out at the end."

"You walked out of that alive." He sits up, legs crossed, with his glass of beer in both hands while he watches me from a vantage point of several inches. Which I could almost match if I sat up too, it's not as bad in this vessel if we're both seated, but I'd still be shorter. "Seriously, Leo, give yourself some credit. You can't convince me you got that much out of the job, especially if you were being hit by unexpected twists all along the way, without there being skill involved."

"Sure." I tilt my head back further, to stare up at the ceiling. "I'm smart. I can improvise wildly under absurd circumstances. It only _occasionally_ gets me killed. That'd make a nice plaque to put above the place where my Forces are inevitably disbanded in the midst of some idiot high-risk job I never wanted to take. ‘He was smart. It only got him killed permanently once.'"

"I suspect," Trey says, and he slides nearer to me but I don't mind, even when I end up with my feet on his lap, "that half the time, when you lost a vessel, it was more someone else's fault. Judging by how you're talking about the recent job. Where did they go? Summary. You can skip the ones where it's some big secret."

I have to put the beer down to count this out on my fingers. "First one. Dropped a building on myself."

"And was it your fault?"

"Sort of. Dropping the building, that was the plan. Being in it at the time, that part my girlfriend talked me into. I took out a triad of Judgment and a handful of Malakim at the same time, so there's _that_ , but if I'd come up with a better plan in the first place, that one wouldn't have ended with me inside."

"What Band is your girlfriend?"

"Balseraph. Was. I mean. Still is. Still is a Balseraph, not so much my girlfriend anymore, though the subject gets confused when we meet up."

"I call that one not your fault," he says. "What was the next?"

"I'm fuzzy on the details, because Trauma tends to give me some amnesia about what happened beforehand, but she talked me into having some buildings set on fire near this one Stone Tether we were supposed to undermine."

"So, her fault again," Trey says, and he sounds a little smug to be proving his own point, but that's because he hasn't heard all the data yet.

I wiggle my middle finger at him, and continue. "Third time. Got into a tangle, me and Zhune, with these--never mind who, but I ended up taking out a load-bearing wall. My fault. No doubt about it."

"So that's one of three," he says. "Not that bad, as percentages go."

"But wait! There's more. The next time, we had to do a suicide run on a whole pack of Malakim because some idiot Magpie could not keep his mouth shut when angels were interrogating him."

"Was it necessary?" He waves a hand expansively. I like the way he does that. Like he's not worried about how much space he takes up. "From the perspective of the Boss."

"Mm. Yeah. He wasn't happy about--some other things, but that part was pretty much necessary."

"So it's not your fault," he says. "Your responsibility, maybe, but that's a calculated risk. One out of four where you messed up, and the rest you can blame on someone else."

"Eh. Sure." I prop myself a bit more upright, shoving myself upward with elbows to the couch arm. "What does it matter? Sooner or later, it's not just going to be vessel death. Or I'll get stuck in Trauma, and never wake up, and okay let's talk about something else now." Because it's not so much that it's depressing to think about my own death, because I am well used to the topic, as that this is reminding me of that conversation with Sean and the last thing I need right now is to be thinking about that asshole.

"Something else." He sips his beer, and watches me. Maybe I do like it when people watch me, once in a while, though this is going to end the wrong way. Just like it did with Anthony. But this time around I'll know better than to overreact, and really after all this time with Zhune it's not like these sorts of things even matter anymore. Like vessels mean anything. "How did you end up with a Balseraph of the War for a girlfriend?"

"Met her in college."

"That," he says, "is a shorter story than I expected."

"Sure, but it sums it up. She was in the ROTC, I was in the architectural program, we were both on the corporeal for the first time, it was fun right up until I ran away while a Mercurian of War put her through a wall. Did you know that some Mercurians can be right bastards when provoked? Or even when not provoked! You're walking along and they decide to jump you because, hey, who doesn't like--" And that itchy sensation resolves itself into sense fast enough that I shut up before I say something that I really shouldn't. "Anyway. There's not much to say about her. She's beautiful and arrogant and not as smart as she likes to think, and she was much better at pulling off wild plans when I was helping her. What's tragic, or maybe hilarious, or both, kinda hard to tell them apart, is that she still wants to keep me. Drag me away from Theft and make me play advisor and punching bag and boyfriend and support system and fall guy. And if it weren't for my Prince and my partner, I might even let her."

"Some people are like that," Trey says. He runs a thumb down the arch of my foot, though I'm still wearing socks. The good boots are by the couch, where I can't forget them. "They get into your head, and not in the way Habbalah do. Deeper and subtler and long-term. So long as it doesn't get in the way of work, what does it hurt?"

"And it doesn't," I point out, because this is important. "I let Lightning shoot her, and I did not _like_ that, but even if I had a way to stop them--and that would've been tricky anyway--the job called for letting her take the fall. So. I'm not stupid about jobs. Just stupid about decisions sometimes. Like this."

"Like this?"

"This."

"Nothing stupid about this," Trey says. I seem to be acquiring a foot rub, and that is probably a terrible sign, and I cannot bring myself to object. "We had a few drinks, we talked about a few things, no desperately dangerous secrets were shared."

"It never ends well."

He has found some spot in the center of my foot that apparently needed a thumb pressed right there. Would not have guessed, and yet. Of course an Impudite would be good at giving foot rubs. "You don't much like this vessel," he says. "Do you."

"Of course I don't. I hate it. I hate wearing it, I hate having it, I hate how people react to it, I hate what people think about me because of it, and I hate that it's not even mine. I lost it once to Trauma, and he gave it _back_ , even knowing I didn't want it, because it wasn't for me." My beer's mostly gone. I wonder when that happened. I shouldn't have any more, and I should probably shut up before I say things that I should not say to certain people. "Yours looks exactly like you. This one looks nothing like me. It doesn't feel right."

"I do like this one," Trey says. "Daosheng had it aged up a couple of decades when she sent me back to the corporeal. Don't you have another vessel, though? You could wear that one. If it's any better."

"Better," I say. "Taller. Male. Not so--adorable. I don't want to look adorable. People think the wrong things and then it goes badly all around. But I'm not supposed to use that one much. He _told_ me not to let the angels get a look at that one, and I've already botched that once, so I don't pull it out much."

"You're on a job that doesn't have you robbing Tethers, or anything else that's likely to run you into angels," Trey says. "Wear what you like." He leans over me to take the empty glass from my hand. "Fair warning, though, Zabina will try to dress that one up too, if it's dressed like this one was."

"Tidier. I don't use it much. Not much change for things to fall apart."

"We should get you to bed," Trey says.

"I'd rather not." Like what I want ever matters.

"You will feel better in the morning," he says, and levers me up to my feet, until I'm leaning against his chest, and it's no fair that he can hold his alcohol better than I can. "Water, painkillers, and a few hours somewhere dimly lit. Besides, you don't want to listen to Julie talk about her night when she gets home."

"There are a lot of things I don't want." I go where I'm directed, and he rolls me onto the bed in the room that is, I suppose, our bedroom, along with Guo's for whatever host he brings around next. "I hate this vessel and this shirt and those shoes and that stupid phone and not having enough information and the way I never get paid and the way my head feels right now."

"That," Trey says, "is because I poured too much beer into you. My fault, this time. Sorry." He gets my stupid classy shirt stripped off, and the bra beneath it that I only wear because of the way Zabina starts explaining why I need it, if I don't. "You'll be more comfortable with your jeans off, too," he says. Then helps me get those off when I don't do anything much to pull them off except for lie on my back and wonder why I keep making these decisions. The bad decisions, the stupid decisions, the ones where I think it's okay this one time to act like I don't have to worry about other people. Other people are always more dangerous than anything else in the world.

He opens a dresser drawer, and returns to the bed with one of his shirts. Pulls that over my head, which I do need to give him some help with. To get my arms through the sleeves properly. It's not so big as one of Zhune's shirts, still far too big for this vessel.

And he brings me a glass of water, and insists I drink the whole thing. A handful of painkillers, another glass of water, and then he turns off the lights in the room. "I'll keep anyone from hassling you before eight or so," he says, "though I can't make any promises about the noise outside."

And. That's all.

I don't even know what to think about that, but with my head in this state it's easier to close my eyes and not think about anything at all for a while.


	15. In Which Reports Are Made

There is a period between drunk and sober that's not that bad. Hazy, prone to headaches, but free of any particular obligations or impulses. Various people get back into the apartment while I'm curled up in the dark room, going through that particular transition, and while I hear muffled voices through the door, no one comes inside to bother me. A good thing, I guess, that everyone with luggage besides Trey uses the other room.

Though, come to think of it, Guo has luggage too. Or at least one suitcase was pointed out as his. Now I wonder what's in it. (None of my business.) Probably not clothes. Being a Shedite must be a lot like being a Magpie inherently, I think. No Roles, no possessions of your own unless you go to a lot of trouble to keep them moving with your hosts or deposited somewhere you can pick them up again... Most Shedim are such relentlessly terrible people that it's hard to feel sorry for them, but I'm beginning to feel that some of that comes from environment.

It's not worth thinking about nature versus nurture when applied to demons and Hell. That'll just make my head hurt worse. Still. Shedim have drawn a bad hand in a lot of ways. In Hell, their resonance doesn't do anything. On the corporeal, it only works on humans. Damn useful in its way, but they don't get a face of their own, or anything that's not constantly borrowed, and by nature they have to drive those borrowed bodies into increasingly horrible situations. That'd wear on anyone.

There's no real sense of dawn light coming through the blinds when it's this overcast outside, but after a while I'm feeling uncomfortably sober, and the gray outside seems more like sunlight blocked by rain gray than streetlights at night gray. My phone proves to have a backlog of texts and photos. Almost all of them from Julie. Now there is a demon who seems entirely happy with where her life has taken her.

I suppose the same is true for most of Zhune's friends. He collects people who are satisfied with where they've arrived. Like a whole parade of people who are working for the right Word, doing a job they enjoy, finding something they like in the midst of the work. Even the ones who _need_ something from us don't need to get out of where they are. We run into those people, too, but they're not his friends.

Most of the demons I meet seem a lot more comfortable with their lives than I do. Guess I'm just special. Fuck up enough to run through three different Words in two decades, and that is not going to lead to a lot of personal happiness. It's my own damn fault. I probably should've stuck with Regan when I had the chance, no matter how many problems that arrangement had. I could cope. I knew _how_ to cope, with that. It was stable in its own horrible way, and there were perks.

I mean. There are plenty of good things about working for Theft, too. And Zhune's a better partner than some I could have. If I had to work with Julie long-term, someone would end up in Trauma.

After pulling on my jeans and deleting the latest round of cat gifs in my inbox, I leave the room to face the day. The day, and my current coworkers, who at least aren't a pack of Hellsworn. That's something. Guo's reading one of the shiny paperbacks from the bag; Zabina's intent on her laptop; Trey's nowhere to be seen; and Julie gives me a cheery little wave from the couch, where she's doing something with what appears to be his tablet.

"You must have had fun last night," she says. "Still up for tonight's trip?"

I briefly consider what I must look like, in Trey's shirt and entirely rumpled from lying in bed in it for hours. Then I decide I don't care what assumptions she's making. "Eh, maybe. I don't want to get behind on work."

"Let me know if you need help with anything," she says. "We'll get you cleared in time for clubbing, no worries. Oh! And I have an idea." She bounces to her feet, dropping the tablet on the rug. Definitely Trey's. "Look," she says, sliding right up into my personal space while I try not to flinch back against the bathroom door that I was aiming towards. She projects confidence in a way that reminds me of some dangerous people I've known, no matter that she wraps it up in bubbly cheer. "We're practically the same size. I can loan you some of my clothes, which will save us hours. No shopping, sorry, but maybe another time on that? So don't worry about it. We'll have plenty of time to make it tonight."

"Yeah, sure," I say, and flee into the bathroom. Which she does not follow me into, and that's something.

Whatever sobering up is left to do, the shower takes care of. I lean my forehead against the tiles while the hot water cascades over my back, and try to figure these people out. Too big a job for fifteen minutes at eight in the morning.

Guo's straightforward. Idiot kid looking for approval. Like Trey said, he wants attention, and if he can learn not to hit on people who aren't interested, he'll be fine. For certain cowering, wide-eyed versions of fine. He's lucky to be working with people who aren't abusing that shamelessly. (At least, not in ways I can tell.) He's clearly the junior one here, and gets all the tedious work no one else wants to do, but no one seems to torment him for the sake of their own amusement.

Zabina, I don't need to figure out. She's _professional_ , and so long as I can meet her sartorial standards, and don't fuck up anything relevant to the job, she seems unlikely to bother me. If she has secrets or problems or unpleasant personal quirks, they haven't manifested yet. A little on the passive-aggressive side, but frankly I prefer that to the outright aggressive sort.

Which brings me to Julie, who's aggressive as anyone I've ever met, but in a purely social way, and that's a new one for me. I could deal with sweet, I could deal with nasty, but I don't know how to fight back against her brand of pressure without looking like the uncouth Calabite who can't get along with normal people. Maybe I shouldn't care about that? And maybe the Marquis, who I get to go talk to again this afternoon, will intervene personally if I'm too surly at one of her Impudites and hurt someone's feelings.

Though I suspect it's about as easy to hurt Julie's feelings as to bend steel. She doesn't get hurt, she gets even. And if I _annoy_ her, this whole job could get a lot less fun.

I wonder if I can turn in my results this afternoon, and leave. Steal a car, drive south, and wait for Zhune to catch up with me. (However long that takes. I can't believe he didn't even try to arrange a meeting place, or say anything about that, that he didn't say anything at all, when I left. It should be a stupid question, about a Djinn: doesn't he even care? But I know he cares. At least. I think I know. Maybe he was just doing the apathetic thing in front of hostile strangers to avoid looking too concerned.) That'd make it one weird week, not even a full one, and almost an odd sort of vacation. Interesting work. Mostly decent people. I've had much worse vacations. Not getting paid isn't really a big deal.

Trey seems more than decent. Seems means nothing. I have been down this road before, the one where some pleasant and social and mildly pushy Impudite seems like someone I can deal with, and oh, look at where that got me last time. People will hold that incident with Anthony against me forever. (He deserved it. It was still stupid of me to do that.) If I've got an ounce of sense, I'll take advantage of the space I got last night and keep things polite. Friendly, but at a safe distance, which means... I don't know. No touching.

I can trust Ash because he'll swear to things. Because he's proven himself trustworthy so far. I cannot trust any of these people further than I can throw them, and we have already established that this is _not very far_.

I miss Zhune. How pathetic is that? And the shower's running cold. You'd think a condo building this big could arrange to have communal water heating. Something industrial, like at a hotel.

Zabina gives me a sidelong look when I settle down at the coffee table wearing the same thing I was when I came out of the bedroom.

_Do remember to change before giving your report this afternoon_ , says the text she sends me. I can't help but appreciate that she uses full sentences and proper spelling in her text messages, unlike some people in this room. I do not appreciate the reminder, which was unnecessary. If the people working for the Marquis think that proper clothing is mandatory, I'll wear the stupid stuff when I'm standing in front of her. I wore the uniform when I was in Gehenna, and this isn't much worse.

#

Trey shows up in the early afternoon, a bag of groceries in one hand and a thoughtful expression on his face. "You're up first," he tells Julie, and then adds to Guo, "Lend me a hand?" Which gets him help in putting away groceries, while the other Impudite springs to her feet and heads for the door.

"You have a tag turned out," Zabina notes, just as Julie's opening the door.

Julie stops short, and checks the back of her neck. It's true. Tag turned out, needs to be tucked back down. Fiddly nonsense, but I guess some people care about that. "Thanks," she chirps at Zabina, with a smile that someone who didn't know her might take as sincere appreciation for the help.

Point to the Impudite. Not that I'm keeping score.

I go change while Julie's having her meeting, and walk past Zabina in the outfit she picked out. Nominally to grab a drink from the fridge, in practice so that she can note any problems now. I'd rather get her feedback than have the Marquis tidy me up again. It's--unnerving. Like when the Boss ruffles my hair and smiles at me. Attention from powerful people is never a good thing, no matter what benefits might accompany it.

The Lilim adjusts the hang of my jacket, and otherwise leaves me be. So. I have achieved minimal competence in dressing myself the way she wants me to. Go me, I guess. 

The order of summons is, I suspect, a hierarchy marker. Zabina's the one who heads out the door when Julie returns, and then Trey when Zabina gets back. He's gone for most of an hour, while Guo gets increasingly hunched over his book. I'm not sure he's even reading it anymore.

But it turns out that when Trey gets back in, he gives me the smile that is, I think, supposed to be reassuring, and points me at the door.

Well. She hasn't killed me yet. No reason to think that's going to change this time.

#

The Marquis's office is no less overwhelmed by papers than last time. Maybe more so, and I think they've brought in another table to hold some of it. Who knew that industrial espionage took so much paperwork? Or maybe this is what it takes to manage--however many servants she has. If the ones here are only a subset that she could pull from other work, she must have more than a dozen on the corporeal, plus whatever organization she has in Hell for her work back there. It's really too many people for a Word of that size, but Marquises have their own work to do even without Word support. Presumably. I have never been particularly well-informed on how the upper ranks of the aristocracy function in Hell. "Perfectly well without me" was my usual conclusion.

She indicates a seat across the table from her. I sit. Either I'm moving up the ranks in accommodations granted during conversations, or this one will be a long one. Still, it's a step up from being asked to sit on the floor.

"Tell me what categories you've established," the Marquis says.

"Lightning and Technology. The others don't have enough examples for me to group them with any confidence."

She nods, her gaze flicking back to her computer screen, then to me. I do not have her full attention, and I am just as happy for that. "Explain your criteria for sorting between those two categories, or into neither."

Well, that's not enormously broad or anything, is it? I lock my hands together in my lap to keep from fidgeting with anything, and launch into a general explanation. Which turns into a more specific one as the first overview doesn't seem enough to satisfy her, and then I've been talking for several minutes straight and I'm down to the fine details of explaining how the geography of the few marked locations was useful in determining how well a given building took into account natural disaster (because apparently Technology doesn't believe in paying attention to earthquake resilience or the hazards of soil shifting when they could be putting in more blast walls) and she finally lifts a hand to shut me up.

"Good work. Put together a report explaining the details for each. Include any details visible in half the examples, and note frequency. Redundancy between the two reports is expected; they should stand alone." She's silent for a moment, but I don't know how to interpret the pause. "Any questions?"

I would rather pretend complete comprehension, but if I do this wrong, she'll probably send me back to repeat the process. "What level of architectural knowledge should I assume for the reader?"

"Low, but some familiarity with basic housebreaking techniques. Footnote as needed." The pause after that must be to see if I have any further questions, but none of the others are ones I want to fuss over. Too many questions imply a lack of personal confidence, and I can fake that in--well. I _am_ confident in my skills in this area, no fakery needed.

The Marquis's fingers tap along the edge of the table, and she considers me directly. Which is not a dismissal, and I don't know what it is. This would be less paranoia-inducing if I had any idea how to read her moods. That nothing has blown up yet is probably a good sign, right? (Though if she's anything like Captain Savas, my first hint that she's disagreed with something I said or did or failed to say or do will be that I'm bleeding.)

"The difficulty," she says, "would be in discovering an appropriate payment for services rendered. When you and that Djinn worked for me before, you performed the majority of the work. Any object or otherwise physical representation of payment which I might give to you would become his property on your return. I do not find this acceptable. If I wished to pay one person for the services of another, I would deal with those who have the authority to rent out such workers."

I keep my mouth shut rather than say something stupid, since nothing smart is springing to mind. It's not like I can deny what she says is true. Zhune doesn't like me keeping things. Even his presents are temporary. What I don't destroy, he makes disappear.

"What Songs do you know?"

That's probably not a non sequitur. "Thunder. Celestial Tongues. Ethereal Form." If I thought I could get away with it, I'd try to keep more secrets, but I don't know what information she has on me. So I may as well assume that she knows everything but the few secrets that could really get me killed, and asks only to find out if I'll lie to her or not.

"Speak with Julie. She'll teach you a few more. Take your pick." The rhythm of her fingers on the edge of the table reminds me of Zhune. Everything does right now. "Tell Guo that I'll see him next."

There's the dismissal. And I get out of there without her touching me, and, well, payment. The promise thereof. That's not a bad one, depending on what Julie knows, and how did the Marquis know? Zhune can't be so bad about letting partners keep things with all the partners he's had, clearly Henry was fond of possessions and allowed to hold onto them, but it can't just be me. I'm one in a series. So maybe she just knows the patterns.

Doesn't matter. Not anything worth thinking about. I have a job to do, and this time I might get paid for it. That's not so bad, is it?


	16. An Interlude, In Which Sometimes They Are All Really Talking About Me Behind My Back

When the door closed behind the Calabite, Yuliang said, "Well, I think we should keep her."

"I don't believe it's our decision," Zabina said, her eyes not lifting from the screen of her laptop. Manicured nails tapped across the keys with more deliberation than speed. Some people had to use the backspace key because of typing too quickly. The Lilim was not one of them.

"Don't act like you don't care," Yuliang said. "I've seen your secretaries, and she is too your type. Why aren't you even trying to keep her here? Do you want her to run back to that Djinn? Did you even hear what he did back in Hong Kong?"

"I heard." Zabina spared a moment's look in the direction of that Impudite. "I also saw how he keeps his partner. Lanthano's cat receives better care."

"I should think so," Lanthano said. He lay on the couch with his feet propped on its arm, eyes closed and hands tucked behind his head. No one in the room was under the impression that this meant he was not paying attention. "I take good care of that cat."

"I don't want to keep her," Guo said in a low voice. "She might--break things."

Yuliang swept over to plant a kiss on the top of the Shedite's head. "Don't be such a fussbudget, Gee. She won't hurt you if you keep your hands to yourself, anyone could see that. She's just twitchy because she's been in bad company. You know what that's like." She put her hands to Guo's shoulders, and stepped back to arm's length to smile down at him. "Some people flinch when they're scared, and some people bite. Bet she's a biter."

"I guess you're right," Guo said.

"And I bet," Yuliang continued, sweeping over to the couch where Lanthano lay, "that I'll do better than _some_ people at convincing her to open up a little. Honestly, Lan, are you even trying? It's been _days_."

"You shouldn't push," Lanthano said, without opening his eyes.

"You should be pushing harder," Yuliang said. She leaned over him, hair dangling, and leaned further until her hair brushed across his face and he opened his eyes. "I've seen you seduce a Habbalite of Technology in under twenty minutes. What's the hold-up?"

"Looking to the long-term utility." Lanthano brushed her hair out of his face with one hand. "If you would back off and let me do my job--"

"I would, if you were making any real progress. Since you're not..." Yuliang straightened, a shrug incorporated into the movement. "I'll show her a good evening, and how much do you want to bet that I'll get further with that than you have with this whole subtle approach? She's a _Calabite_ , they are not that into subtle."

"No bet." Lanthano closed his eyes, tucking his hands behind his head again. "Try not to push too hard, though. It'll be awkward if you have to explain away holes in the walls. Or yourself."

"I'm not careless," Yuliang said. "I just know how to have fun. Unlike some people here." She stretched, hands up towards the ceiling and standing on her tiptoes. "Bless it, I get so bored here. This place will be more fun once everyone's getting along properly. Even with our favorite killjoy in the apartment. Zee, why don't you come clubbing tonight too? We can make it a threesome."

"No thank you." Zabina's keystrokes had a certain forceful nature to them which could not be entirely attributed to having learned to type on manual typewriters.

"You say that," Yuliang said, "like you don't want to get inside that." She finally earned a narrow-eyed look from the Lilim, and laughed, collapsing into a dining chair. "Never mind. Tell us, what does she Need?"

Zabina snorted faintly. "Object permanence."

Lanthano's eyes cracked open. "Could you get more specific?"

"I could," Zabina said, and continued typing.

"Some people," Yuliang said, "don't like being helpful. Fortunately, some _other_ people are good at getting the work done on their own." She heaved a sigh, and propped her chin on the back of the chair. "Zeeeee, you're not being a good team player. Give us more to work with than that, especially if you're not going to use it yourself. What else does she Need? A hint! Mime it out or something."

"Trustworthy friends," Zabina said. "Personal space. Her partner."

"She isn't about to get all of those at once," Lanthano said. "Did you read the report?"

"I have no interest in handling anything written out by that organization," said the Lilim. "It's not to be trusted."

"So that would be a no," Yuliang said. "Did you know that--"

"She's coming back," Zabina said.

The Calabite walked inside with the gait of someone still smarting from a dressing down, and the expression of a demon with more important things to think about than anything in the room. "Your turn, Guo."

"Thanks." The Shedite leapt to his feet, abandoning his book on the kitchen table. "Did she say to bring anything?"

"No." Leo glanced over the book's cover, and the corner of her mouth twitched. "Is that the sort of thing you like to read?"

"I read whatever people give me," the Shedite said, his shoulders hunching in.

"I'll loan you something better," Leo said, and walked away towards the bedroom door. "Trey, mind if I borrow a shirt?"

"Feel free," Lanthano said.

"Fine," Yuliang said, when the bedroom door closed, "so you're not _completely_ failing to make any progress. Which is good! I have faith in you." She had sense enough to not say that in English.

"You should," Lanthano said.


	17. In Which I Cannot Escape Fashion Choices

With the good boots and one of Trey's shirts on me, I almost feel like I'm dressed normally. Maybe I should be worried that my standards of normal include clothes that don't fit and shoes suitable for sudden combat events, but what's the alternative? Skirts? No. I have to maintain some sort of personal standards or--I don't know what the other side of that "or" might be, but I'm pretty sure I won't like it.

When the Shedite gets back from his meeting, I get him set up with a book that has slightly more edifying properties than what appears to be part of a mystery series about some woman solving murders with the help of her dog. Not sure how that works. My guess would be "poorly" but it's book twelve in the series, and that's sad commentary on the current state of fiction in this culture. My life would have been very different if I'd been made back when people read Charles Dickens for fun instead of as mandatory course materials. (He's never been my favorite author, not by a long shot, because he relies far too heavily on coincidence and melodrama for my tastes, but still. He knew how to set a scene.) In any case, once Guo has a copy of Trollope in hand--somewhat cruel, but it'll build character--I get back to outlining the major areas I should cover in my reports for the Marquis.

This is going to be a lot of writing. Which means I'll have to break out an actual computer at some point to type it up, and hope the breaking doesn't become too literal before I'm finished. I can't do this much information on my phone, and that means...asking for more tools? I'm not even sure who to ask. Not Guo, though I think he's responsible for the fresh stack of notebooks that's appeared on the corner of the coffee table when I wasn't looking.

When Zabina starts making dinner, I leave the rough outline in that notebook behind to go help her. She didn't ask for any help, but dinner is usually a two-person job, and she has things for me to chop and the occasional brisk command--she's not the sort to phrase those as requests--once I've appeared. I need time to _think_ about how I want to organize the reports, and I can think while I chop things. It's not challenging work, and the precise repetition of the knife against vegetables, destruction that reduces a whole object down to a more useful set of broken pieces, is...soothing. Something to do with my hands while my mind tries to break the big concept down into similarly manageable chunks.

Dinner is still too damn noisy, but I tune out most of the conversation once Guo starts asking questions about the book. Turns out no one gave the Shedite any sort of information about _historical_ Western culture. I spend most of dinner trying to explain primogeniture inheritance laws, and only realize around the time most of the plates are cleared that he never picked up on the fact that inheritance passes entirely through the male line.

"But I don't understand _why_ ," Guo says, for about the fifth time in a row. Is this what dealing with a toddler is like? Even Katherine was better at giving up on the whining whyyyy after about three iterations. Especially once I started making her look it up in the dictionary, and then go to the library to hunt down the information there. Nothing like some honest character-building work to get people to consider how much they really want to ask that question.

"Human culture is weird," I say. "That's why. It doesn't make much sense, and you don't try to understand how it got that way, unless you're really interested in the history of it. You just cope with how it works."

"It works in all sorts of ridiculous ways," Julie says. "I'll tell you about some of the worst ones another time. You would not _believe_ some of what I had to put up with last century." She sighs dramatically, arms hooked over the back of the chair, and lets the Shedite clear her place for her. "Lee, you should let someone else do the dishes. We can go pick out clothes."

"The name's Leo," I say. "Two syllables. Easy to remember."

"But this way you rhyme," she says. "Lee and Gee and Zee and--Trey, you're breaking the pattern. You should've come up with a better name."

"Trey and Jay." I take my plate to the sink, and pull a beer out of the fridge. I think I'm going to need it. "There you go. A full house."

I think the only reason Julie isn't looking baffled is because she's too good at controlling her own expression to let that sort of thing show. "Huh," she says. "Lee's handy, though, it works for whatever vessel you have on."

"Poker reference," Zabina says to the air, as she pours out the last of her bottle of wine.

"Who has time for card games? Le _o_ , let's get you dressed."

"What's the hurry?" I wonder if I can come up with an excuse in the next few hours that'll get me out of this. Sorry. Busy with work. So much report to write. I need to shop for a Calabite-proof computer.

"So many outfits to consider," Julie says, "so little time to consider them in!" Her brilliant smile promises that this is entirely an excuse for something else, and I'm willing enough to follow her into the bedroom without making a fuss over it.

It's not like I can do much in this group if anyone decides to get unpleasant. They'll support each other before me, even if any of them were inclined to support me even against third parties, which seems unlikely. Trey might, but I suspect that is more wishful thinking on my part than a logically reached conclusion based on evidence at hand. Impudites appear to be your best friend the way Calabim break your things. Reflexively, and without it really meaning much.

The bedroom Zabina and Julie share is cluttered with luggage but not much of a mess otherwise; I'm not sure if that's one of them imposing order on the other (and I know who I'd guess for each role in that), but an actual attempt to keep things tidy and not drive each other mad. There's a certain inevitable tension from living in such close quarters that we're all dealing with in our own ways. At least I get smoking breaks.

"Now," Julie says, leaning against the closed door with her palms pressed to it, "let's talk."

I resist the urge to flee out the window. Could get a lot of distance via the fire escape, without any significant danger of breaking a leg--I hate going out windows this high up on rainy nights otherwise, that's a good way to end up carried away over my partner's shoulder--but that is probably an overreaction to a threat of extensive personal conversation. "Anything particular in mind?" I ask.

"Lots of things," Julie says, which is practically a threat right there. "But let's start with clothes. What kind of reaction do you want out on the dance floor?"

"Really wasn't planning on dancing," I say. "How about ‘inconspicuous'?" I end up against the window at the far wall, sitting on as much of the windowsill as is available to me. 

"If you seriously don't want to go," Julie says, "you don't have to. It's not _obligatory_ , you know, I just think you'd have fun! But if you don't want to have fun, you won't. Not enjoying yourself is easy. All you have to do is decide to do it, and there you go. It's done. Easy as that." She flings her hands wide, and smiles at me sweetly. "If you're willing to give it a shot, Leo, you _might_ enjoy it. Won't know until you try it, will you? Have you never tried clubbing at all?"

"I went to this one club, with this Impudite of Lust," I say, "and then the Game showed up, and I can't say that the whole thing ended very well."

"If the Game shows up, we'll drop the boss a note and go to a club with higher standards." Her smile's infectious, though my immunity to such things is pretty high. So far. "I can see why you'd be leery of trying again, but you'll be with me this time. Besides," and she lowers her voice just enough that I find myself leaning in to hear her properly, "Trey won't go with me tonight, Guo's got work to do, and can you _imagine_ me asking Zee to come along? Can you imagine clubbing with her at all? She would find a place to sit and watch everyone and just--" She snaps her fingers, searching for the description.

"Judge them?"

"Yes, though everyone does that. Half the point of going clubbing is to have people looking at you. But she'd disapprove, which is not getting into the spirit of things." Julie shrugs, a fluid motion that somehow ends with her flopped across the bed, feet kicked up and chin propped in her cupped hands. "If you go with me, I don't have to check in every half hour. And it's more fun with friends."

We're not friends. We've known each other for less than a week. (Ash was a friend on less interaction, but that's different. He makes promises I can trust.) "I'm probably not going to make it more fun for you."

"Just try once," Julie says. She holds up one finger. "Once! Then if you don't like it, after you've tried, you _know_ instead of _suspecting_."

"Once."

"And you have to give it a chance. Or you will be miserable all night, and then I'll feel bad about wasting your time off." She sits up, tucking her feet beneath her. "Now let's talk clothes."

"I generally wear some in public."

"A good place to start." She makes a frame with her fingers to look through at me. "I'm thinking...sheath dress. I have one in this dark turquoise that would look amazing on you. The boots Zee bought you would go just fine, toss on maybe this one sweater I have for running around in the cold, and you're golden."

It's time to stop that idea before she gets too attached to it. "No dresses."

"But you would--"

"No dresses. No skirts."

I'd almost expect a pout, but she looks more thoughtful instead. "Why not?"

"Because no, that's why."

Julie taps a finger on her lips. "I've got this one really kicky skirt, all pleated, that you'd be great in with leggings. Sort of the schoolgirl goth look? It'd go with the boots _Trey_ got you, if you prefer those, and it wouldn't be any problem for if a fistfight comes up while you're wearing the outfit. It'd sort of make you look sixteen, but that can be fun too! Assuming you have a decent ID, you do, don't you?"

"I have a decent ID, I do not want to look sixteen, and I am still not wearing a skirt." My arms are folded over my chest and I'm in danger of replicating Guo's shoulder hunch at this rate. "I'm not going for the schoolgirl look. Ever. Goth or otherwise."

"We can fix the age thing easily enough with the right makeup--"

"And no makeup."

"Leo," Julie says, ever so patiently, like I'm being _difficult_ but she's willing to humor me in this (and I have the horrible suspicion that this is actually the case, but I can damn well be difficult if I want to), "I can work with what you want! But you have to give me an idea of what look you're going for. What do you want people to think when they look at you? Start with that, and we build the outfit from there. You go out in public, people will see you, people make conclusions based on what they see. It's only natural. We want you to be the one controlling what they think and how they react. So what do you want?"

I don't know.

I don't like that I don't know. I used to be able to do this. When I had a Role, I could play to that. I've done architect and substitute teacher and devoted boyfriend and affable guardian to rebellious child, there was a way to dress and talk and present myself for all of those, and I don't know _what_ I want people to think when they look at me anymore. Even for a single night in a club.

"I don't want to spend all night being hit on." There. That's a safe place to start. "Or treated like some sort--adorable child. If there's a look that says ‘I am here to have a beer and listen to the music, now fuck off,' I'll go with that one."

"Tricky in that vessel," Julie admits. "You could probably wear a shirt advertising a castration service and still run into men who'd take it as a challenge. Or just women who think that's your special way of saying you're not into men. Are you?"

"What?"

"Into men. Or not. Or into women, or dogs, or little old white-haired ladies with canes." Julie waves an arm, and smiles at me. "I don't judge. Or at least I don't judge out loud. If you tell me what you like, I can point you towards that better. And I've run into some demons who honestly and truly aren't into corporeal sex at all, but I can't say I understand that. Vessels are fun! You can do so much with them."

"I don't do humans." Except occasionally for work reasons, when Zhune's talked me into that, and I'm not about to volunteer that information in case it gives her the wrong kind of idea. The Marquis could not pay me enough for that kind of work. (I could not say no if she wanted me to do that, though. Never mind. She has better people for that if it comes up.) "Beyond that--I don't know. It doesn't come up much."

"I guess it _wouldn't_ , if you're marking all of humanity off the list. But don't worry! I can work with this."


	18. In Which Clubbing Has Side-Effects I Probably Should Have Expected

The final clubbing outfit we agree on is mostly what Zabina bought for me, with one of those blouses swapped out for some sleek burgundy sleeveless thing with a lower back than I like, but no plunging neckline to suggest I want people staring at my chest. And with my jacket covered that, it doesn't even feel weird--no weirder than this week has been in general--until we reach the club and I find it's a sweaty place full of too many people and the expectation that we'll check our coats at the door.

"I've changed my mind," I tell Julie. "Let's do something else."

"Too late now." She's all glow and glitter, between the shiny black pants and the damn near iridescent top. If fashion is about controlling the reaction you get from other people, she's grabbing them by the face to make them look at her. To be expected from her Band, I suppose, and the more they look at her, the less they might look at me. "You said you'd try to have fun, so give it a try!"

I didn't exactly promise, but I did imply a willingness to give this a shot. So I surrender my coat to the bored clerk at the counter, and follow this Impudite into the wall of sound.

We're early, at least by Julie's standards, but the place is already more crowded than I like. Sweat and perfume and a general miasma of wet clothing being heated up permeates the place, like one of those horrible jobs that takes place in a Florida summer. And here I thought Seattle would have some appreciation for brisk chill. If the humidity were any higher in here, we'd be able to see the water droplets shivering in the pounding bass of the sound system.

I can't tell if they have a smoke machine, or if that's marijuana smoke sucked inside from the side door to the fenced patio where people brave the drizzle for a quick cigarette or joint. Either way it's hard to see across the dance floor.

But it's not really reminding me of the club Anthony took me to. This place is more casual, smaller, less _expensive_. It's not catering to wealthy young professionals who want to flaunt their wallets, but to middle-class people who want to dance. The tables are all occupied, but the dance floor is where the crowd is. And where Julie plunges in, while I stop short at the edge.

She returns a moment later, trailed by a handful of people. She gives out introductions; I do polite nodding and don't try to remember the names. Everyone knows Julie, everyone _likes_ Julie, and she's been in this city a week.

They're welcome to her. I'm willing to show up and make a show of good faith, but they are not going to convince me to start dancing. Not in this vessel, not wearing this, and not here. Julie takes a stab at convincing me, but gives up so quickly that I don't think she's too concerned with my decision in this area. She's nice enough to clear a table for me--all she has to do is _ask_ and complete strangers will happily move away with their drinks--and then I have a place to sit with my back to the wall, where I can watch other people having fun.

I'm not trying to sulk. Pretty sure I'm being honest with myself about that one. (I'd need to ask Penny to be sure, and like I'd bother him over something that petty.) This just isn't my thing. Surrounded by strangers, too much noise for a conversation--even if I liked the music, I wouldn't at this volume--and nothing to do but drink (which is a bad idea) or dance (which--no). Getting elbow-to-elbow with dozens of humans who are almost all _taller than me_ is not my idea of a good evening.

But it's hard to keep a spirit of openness to potential fun going when I'm sitting at a table with nothing to do. I end up pulling out my phone and trying to work out how to send text messages.

And then it turns out that Ash is _fast_ to respond to texts, and that keeps me occupied for a half hour or so, even if it's probably not good for the phone. He has random Lilim gossip about Zabina (do I really care that she once arranged for the overthrow of a tiny European monarchy because of personal irritation at the king's brother? I suppose it doesn't hurt to know she's capable of it), and recommendations for beers that I will never find in this city.

Julie drops down at the table across from me. "I am going to maim the next person who thinks I'm Japanese," she says conversationally. "How are you doing?"

"No one's inspired me towards maiming, so pretty good?"

"Good. You should--oh, thanks, Pete!" She offers the human who's brought her a pair of shot glasses a brilliant smile, and accepts them both. One gets slid over the table towards me. "I'll be back in a minute! See if Ava wants anything? Thanks." She picks up where she left off as soon as the man's a few steps away. "--you should have a few drinks, listen to the music, have some fun. Maybe you'll feel more like dancing later."

"Probably not," I say, and down the shot to show willing. Tastes like artificial watermelon. "Look, don't worry about me. I'm fine over here. If you want to drink more, leave the keys with me, and I'll play designated driver for the evening."

"You can find your way back to the place in the dark?"

Why do people keep asking me that? We work for Theft. Knowing how to escape the scene of the crime rapidly is part of my _job_ , and finding the safehouse again--or local equivalent--is part of that. "Pretty sure. Planning on bringing anyone home tonight?"

"Mm, probably not. Some people just _fuss_ if I bring back guests, no matter how careful I am. But don't worry. I'm not about to abandon you, either." She leans across the table and kisses me on the cheek. "Back soon!"

I didn't even flinch. Which has to count for something. And she looks like she's having fun on the dance floor, whenever I catch a glimpse of her through the crowd.

#

Some four hours later, I have come to the conclusion that there are certain disadvantages to the way that celestial beings don't get tired. Or need sleep. There's a weariness that shows up when we've been doing a lot of work, but it's not physical, and Julie clearly doesn't consider dancing work. I have consumed more free-for-the-driver sodas than I particularly wanted, and my phone's battery is down to ten percent.

 _Do you think I could fake a heart attack to get out of here?_ I send to Ash, and watch Julie get up close and personal with yet another human. They look interchangeable in here, after a while. Yet another person who loves that Impudite dearly, at least for a few minutes at a time. Trey must be up to something far more interesting tonight. Somewhere _quieter_.

I should've taken him up on the offer of coffee, back in Stygia. I mean. I would've if that were the kind of offer I could accept. It would've just made Zhune irritated at him, and that's trouble I wouldn't wish on anyone I like, or think I might like, so... No, that's not something useful to think about. It'll only make me miss my partner and be angry at him all at the same time. Neither of those does me any good. I'll see him when this job is over. And being angry at him never _helps_.

 _Doubt that would work. Maybe an asthma attack? Or just leave! Have fun somewhere else. Call!_ Ash is full of terrible yet enticing suggestions. That's probably the Lilim principle: suggest something that's a bad idea, but sounds so good at the time.

(Probably never should've slept with him. Or the second time, or the third... But I refuse to let Zhune's unreasonable whims control my life when he's not even around.)

 _Can't. I'm watching someone's back._ That's as good an explanation as any of what I'm doing here, watching Julie drain Essence from the humans she finds pretty enough to bother with. She's spent it at least twice, in tiny bursts of I don't know what purpose, plus one use of Celestial Tongues that's probably a report back to the people at the apartment. Or, for all I know, friends back in...wherever she lives. Shanghai, I think. _Having a great time despite the whiny contractor, wish you were here!_ Or whatever it is that Julie says to people while she's clubbing.

Or maybe she's reporting back to the Marquis, and this is part of whatever complex subterfuge this whole group of demons is working on. Four demons aimed in one direction, a Marquis to supervise, and me on the side... Whether or not it's an important project as such, Chaixin surely _cares_ about it.

I wonder what she needs an architectural expert for so badly. It must be relevant, or she wouldn't have dragged me all the way out here to do this work. If all she wanted was revenge on Zhune, she could've managed that efficiently in the first day. In the first _moment_ of our meeting. Without ever meeting me, come to think of it, because she certainly has enough people to delegate in this area. There must be some level of honesty to hiring me--to wanting me to do this work for her--because I can't imagine why she'd bother dragging me in, having her people spend time and energy and money on me, otherwise. Revenge is so much simpler than contracting.

Julie drops down into the seat across from me. "You're having fun?"

"Sure," I lie. Texting Ash is something like fun, and this could be worse. I've had far worse nights. 

"You are _so_ bored. Don't worry, I'll be done soon! I'm not going to close the place out tonight, since you're waiting on me." She makes that sound like a gracious concession on her part and nothing important enough to make a fuss about, all at once. It's a nice trick. Do they give Impudites classes in this sort of thing, or do they all pick it up through natural talent?

 _If you were here,_ says Ash's next text, _you would already be having fun._ And I can't disagree with that, but this is work. A subset of work. Playing nice with the temporary coworkers, and not getting myself into trouble.

Zhune claims I'm not capable of getting along with other demons. It's not entirely true. I get along fine with demons who don't hassle me, and aren't old friends of his with a stack of preconceptions about his partners. Julie and Trey don't mind me, and even if Impudites barely count since they get along with most anyone, Zabina seems...more or less okay with my existence. All I have to do is wear the company uniform and she's happy. That's it. That's _easy_.

When Julie collects me and sweeps us out of the club, we're not trailing any new humans, but she seems to have acquired a different jacket than the one she came in wearing. I suppose it's good to know that someone around here is still upholding the basic principles of Theft.

In the car, she flops into the passenger seat while I get us pointed back towards home. The apartment, I mean. "That's what every night should be like," she says, curling her feet up into the seat. "You down any Essence? I'm more buzzed from that than the drinking."

"One or two, and I'm fine. Seat belt."

Julie laughs, and pulls her seat belt on. "If you _insist_." She drags her fingers through her hair, and takes a deep breath. "Okay. So we did that. And you didn't like it. Sorry! But I think we all learned a valuable lesson here, and I won't try to drag you clubbing again. Unless it was just the wrong type of music, in which case tell me what music you _do_ like, and we'll do that some time."

"I'm not a clubbing person, Julie. Sorry."

"It's okay. Some people aren't. Trey, him I can drag along for a few hours, especially if we track down a rave instead--there was this one time in Buenos Aires, I'll tell you that story another time, it was _amazing_ , he can be good about these things. But that's Trey for you, right?" She waves an arm across the space between us. "He's so good at doing support, I adore him, but he has no ambition. Which is okay, it is! Not everyone does. And some people who have it shouldn't, so maybe it all balances out."

I crack open a window, despite the drizzle outside. The car still smells faintly of cigarette smoke, and we both smell even more of club. I'm going to want a shower when we get back. "What do you have against Zabina, anyway?"

"Oh, Zee. Sure, maybe that's one of those examples. She has all this ambition bottled up and ready to spring out at the slightest, um, cork-popping? I think it's a Lilim thing." And I think Julie is a little drunk, though this could just be the way she talks when she's had a good evening. "She's so good at the numbers thing, at the _corporate_ thing, but the poor girl's no good at the Theft part of the job. Can't pick a lock or a pocket, can't slip handcuffs or jimmy open a window, I'm not sure she even knows how to shoplift. She'll do just fine working support for someone with a bit more, you know, _vim_ , but she wants to be in charge and that's not going to work. Clearly."

"Clearly," I say. "Was she in charge of something big, back in Greed?"

"No, not really. I mean, human things, sure, but that doesn't count!" Julie leans her cheek against the window, watching me, while I try to keep most of my attention on street signs and what scanty traffic is in the way at this hour. "They put together companies and guilds and estates and corporations so that we have something to take, it's very considerate of them, don't you think? And there are so _many_ of them that there are always some who'll be interesting enough, anywhere you go. Zee used to dig her hands into those sorts of things and then just...stay there. For ages. Playing the humans. I think she gets too invested, you know? In one project or another. You can't get attached to the specifics, to the individuals, not with those _temporary_ things."

"Maybe she'll catch up with the Theft process eventually," I say. "Most people do."

"Eventually. Sure. She should try again! A few decades later, some other position... It's not wrong to want to get ahead. But there are only so many slots." She twists about under the seat belt, and props one foot on my thigh. "What about you? Do you have any grand plans? Places you want to go, things you want to steal, attunements and distinctions and presents to acquire?"

"Not really." Her foot would be more annoying in that position if this were a manual transmission. With an automatic, I can cope.

"Everyone wants something, Lee. Leo, Leah, however you like. See, that's a thing you want, isn't it?" The heel of her boot taps against my leg. "You just have to tell people, if it's something you want from them and can't take it. But mostly we take it. That's the point of belonging to Theft, isn't it? What we want, we take."

"Some things are too risky to steal, Julie." Or by their nature not able to be stolen. You can't steal yourself friendship or trust or promises kept. The closest you can do is take them away from other people, so that they're broken for everyone. And the longer I'm in Theft the more I see how much that's part of the Word, and the less I want to try that. Breaking something so that no one can have it, because I can't have it no matter what, seems so...petty. Childish. Katherine throwing a tantrum because I would not budge on some minor conflict, and did that ever get her what she wanted? No.

"So you get help from friends and pull it off. A grand con. The big sting. Oh! Did you see that movie?"

"Once or twice." It's one of Zhune's favorites. I prefer not to cross entertainment and work in quite that way.

"One of the classics. Some of my friends like the bloodier flicks, but I like the _smart_ ones. It's not about how well you can stab someone, but how well you can set them up." Her smile's sharp as wire. "Though it's nice to have backup options too, isn't it?"

"So I've found." I pull into the same parking space we left hours ago, and wish, briefly, that vessels actually needed sleep, so that I'd have an excuse to go lie down somewhere quiet again. I'm not even drunk enough to justify it.

"Oh, Leo. Don't just keep _agreeing_ with me. Tell me what you really think! I won't mind." She's quick on her feet out of the car, and maybe not so drunk as I thought. "You're so quiet most of the time."

"That's because once I stop talking, I don't shut up. Or so I've been told." She heads for the elevator, so I follow her there, and do my best to ignore the mirrors inside. Elevators always have too damn many mirrors. "Most of the time I'm busy with work, so what's there to say?"

"Anything. Everything. What you're feeling, what your plans are..." Julie checks out her reflection, then mine. "We are so cute together. We should go more places. Somewhere that you like better, next time? What kinds of places do you like to go?"

Libraries and museums, barbecue joints with bad lighting. University campuses and any place that can put together a fine arch and mean it. "I don't know. Haven't been in Seattle often enough to have a good idea of where there is to go."

"There's a meet-up I need to do on Sunday," Julie says, "and I'll take you along there." She ambles down the hallway in a gentle weave that I'm sure is only the semblance of inebriation and not the real thing. "All during the day, plenty of things to look at, not so much noise, you'll like that better." She grabs the door knob, and her eyes narrow as it proves to be locked. "...oh she did _not_."

"We could knock," I say, and stuff my hands in the pockets of my jacket. It's a good jacket, and makes up for a lot.

"No, it's the principle of the thing." Julie fishes out a set of picks from a pants pocket that I had thought was purely cosmetic, and certainly not _holding_ anything. "Locks are so pointless. They don't keep out anyone who really wants to get in, so all they do is give you a false sense of security." She's faster and more adept than I would be at getting the picks moving. "I don't even know why--"

"Because," Zabina says, opening the door, "they slow people down on the way through. Do come in."

If there's anything Ash has taught me--beyond the names of a lot of obscure musical groups that play bars in New York--it's that Lilim tend to have sharp hearing. Something that maybe Julie ought to have figured out by now. I nod politely to Zabina on the way in.

"Never mind that," Julie says breezily, doing a good imitation of someone who does not care what has just been said. "Let's get you out of that shirt and, oh, probably everything else, we're going to need to wash everything after that much time in a place that's fun. Zee, you don't need anything in the bedroom, do you?"

"Feel free," says Zabina, sitting back down at her laptop, "to take as much time in there as you need."

That is exactly the sort of wording that can make a person _wonder_ , around a Lilim. But Julie doesn't look particularly concerned, so--maybe what Zabina said was true, about not hooking coworkers. And _I_ don't need that much time in the bedroom to strip off one shirt and pull on another, so there's probably nothing for me to worry about.

Julie kicks the bedroom door shut behind us, and then rolls her eyes at the door itself. "Some people just _have_ to get in the last word. Toss me that shirt, I'll add it to the pile for dry-cleaning. Guo should do a run tomorrow."

I strip off my shirt, and toss it her way. It's a small thing, but I can't help but rating people a little on how well they can catch an item thrown at them. Not exactly a sign of how well someone will do in Theft, but a bit of hand-eye coordination never hurt. And Julie is clearly good at the literal parts of the Word she serves.

"Pass me Trey's shirt?"

"It's somewhere around here," she says. "We can get you one of your own, if that's the kind of thing you like." She tilts her head to one side, a wave of hair sweeping across her face. "You never did tell me what you liked."

I can't figure out where the shirt's gone. Tidied away by Zabina, perhaps, and back in the other room. There's not a lot of mess in here to search through, and I'm not about to start pawing through anyone else's suitcases or drawers while Julie's watching. (Though I suspect she wouldn't mind, if they were the Lilim's.) "Liked in what sense? Clothes? I'm not into skirts--"

"No, like..." She laughs, and stalks my way. Reminds me of Regan. "Like _like_ like, in the playground sense. ‘Not humans' is limiting, but that can't be your only preference. If all you wanted was _someone not human_ , Leo--" She stands almost nose to nose with me, and even she's a few inches taller than me, which is beyond unfair. "--then you would've jumped Trey when you had the chance."

"Maybe I'm just unreasonably picky." There's space yet for me to back up without running into anything, but I refuse to back away from--questions. Not even questions, statements, and she is not Zhune to back me into corners both literal and figurative time and again.

"You could be," she says. "We all have our preferences." She leans forward, nose brushing against mine. "Some of us actually _tell_ people. You should try that." Fingers laced behind my head, she presses a kiss onto my lips. Almost _polite_ if not for the flick of her tongue at the end. "You are so very much inside of my preferences, Leo. What do you think?"

If her hands weren't at the back of my head, fingers sinking into my hair, I think I would retreat. Or duck away. I don't know, it's not exactly what I expected, and maybe I should have. "It's just this vessel, Julie. Doesn't look anything like me."

"Vessels are like clothes," Julie says. "They're what we present to the world. I can dress up and dress down, and they're all still _me_ , whatever version of myself I'm showing. I like this version of you. Show me another one, maybe I'd like that too. Would you rather?" She draws her hands back, fingertips across my cheeks, and only leaves the one hand on my bare shoulder. "If you don't like this, you can say so. I won't be offended, Lee, this body's not going to be to _everyone's_ taste."

"It's not that." Though I do prefer vessels of a more Balseraph angle. (Or of a more Ash appearance, I suppose, though that's...new. And does it help that Trey reminds me of that look, now and again? It does not help.) "I'm just--" I pull back, and she lets that hand slide off me, while I take a step away. Isn't necessary. Still makes me feel like I have this under some sort of control. "Look, my partner doesn't like it, and who needs that hassle?"

"I don't care one dissolving Force for what your partner likes, or doesn't like, or thinks about any of this," Julie says. "He's not here. _You're_ here. You can say ‘Why yes Julie, I am so into that, kiss me again' or ‘Actually I prefer boys, do you know when Trey is getting back?' or anything else along those lines. Give me a hint." She slides one foot towards me, and shifts ever so gently onto it, her other foot lifted neatly in the air behind her. "You were so _bored_ all night, but there's no reason for you to be bored now."

"I'm not bored," I say, which is not much of a retort. It's more or less true. Shirtless and confused, yes, but not _bored_. Boredom is motel rooms and surveillance. Boredom is not an Impudite waiting on my response, and ready to answer it with something I can't argue with quite.

"Good." She tilts forward on her tiptoes, and kisses me again, hands planted firmly on my shoulders. Her tongue between my lips, sliding across my teeth, and she presses her teeth against my lip in turn too lightly to be more than the notice that they've arrived. "All you have to do," she murmurs, "is tell me if you _don't_ like something, and I'll try something else. Simple. Yes and no questions are the easiest, and anything that isn't no is yes." She gives me just enough space that I can see her smile. "We're Theft, Lee, and we take what we want. I _want_ you. But we're all very good at playing with each other, in this company, and I won't steal anything important from coworkers."

"This is a terrible idea," I tell her, because that's simpler. Than trying to explain anything. (By this point in the conversation, Regan would have grabbed me by the throat, or shoved me against something to make her point. Zhune would--well, he does whatever he wants that he can get away with, but sometimes he humors my protests, and I'm never sure which it'll be.) "We shouldn't." By which I mean that I shouldn't, because I'm sure she'll be fine either way. Other people usually are.

"The only should," Julie says, "is the ‘Don't fuck up the job' type, and this won't." She applies pressure, no throwing me around, just...a suggestion. That I back up a few steps, sit down on the edge of the bed, and it is a reasonable suggestion and I have no good reasons for why I think I should not. Only a general sense that I shouldn't.

I am so tired of being afraid. Maybe none of this will bite me. Maybe this will turn out terribly. And maybe nothing I do will make a difference as to which outcome I get, because how often do my choices matter? My skills mean something, and what I want doesn't. Things happen the way other people make them happen. I cope.

I sit down on the edge of the bed, hands propping me up. I am not lying back. Not now, not yet, not even when she sits on my lap with her knees to either side of my hips. "It might yet fuck things over."

"You are such a pessimist," Julie says, and she sounds...fond. The way Ash does when I need to apologize for destroying something of his by accident, and he always says he doesn't _mind_ , even though I suspect he does a bit. Not enough to stop putting us in situations where it happens. But I don't see how I could have earned that tone of voice from her, when I've done nothing much to please her and haven't had much in the way of conversations, so it's just the Impudite thing again. It doesn't mean anything.

"I like to think of it as realism," I say, and she kisses me again--this time, I suspect, to shut me up. Which I can work with. It was one of Regan's favorite tactics. (I don't know why so many people want me to shut up during sex. Life's more interesting with a good conversation.) If I disagreed with kissing I would be saying something to indicate this, and I am--not. Disagreeing. I am kissing Julie back, because I am so tired of not being able to trust any of these people, and trust is beside the point. I want five minutes of _this feels good and I'm enjoying myself_ , regardless of the consequences.

If I were any good at thinking through the long-term consequences, I wouldn't be working for Theft right now.

This Impudite is not shy about taking advantage of what I will give her, and right now that's only kissing, and she is quite _good_ at this, really. Not so rough as Regan, not so sweet as Ash, nothing at all like Zhune (it's not useful to think about him, I refuse to think about Penny right now), tongue and teeth and lips against mine like she might like to maintain possession here, given the chance.

I'm willing to give her the chance for a good few minutes. My hands are digging into the bedspread, not tearing in holes, just--gripping, like there's a reason to hold on. Maybe there is; Julie's pressed against me, chest to chest and knees gripping at my hips like she might topple me backwards if I let my hands slip. Hers are cupped around the back of my head, one thumb tracing circles along my cheek, and I'm not sure what the point is but I could not say that I disliked it, either.

Julie nips at my bottom lip once, and draws back, smiling at me like she's just won a contest. If the expression were vicious, I'd say against me, but no, it's not implying that. I think. "Okay," she says, "now that we're clear on that..." She slides a hand behind me, dragging two fingers down from the nape of my neck to where this idiot bra clasps, and snaps that open. "Any requests?"

I've already said this is a bad idea, and nothing comes to mind. I mean, there are things I would rather she not do, but explaining them would require explaining things that I don't want to think about, so it's probably best to leave that be. "Not particularly."

" _Do_ tell me if you change your mind," she says, and plants both hands at the insides of my elbows. "This'll be more fun if you just lean back--like that."

Losing the bra doesn't bother me, because I always hated it. Unnecessary bits of extra clothing that some people insist on and I don't want to bother that, almost as bad as heels. "Lie back and think of England?"

"If that's what you like." She slides further up sit neatly over my thighs, no real pin by weight. "Since you won't _tell_ , we'll have to work it out by process of elimination." She draws a line down the center of my chest with one finger. "Maybe you're into... I don't know. Athletic blond women. Pretty teenage boys with enormous eyes. Men in very nice trenchcoats, and who doesn't like a nice trenchcoat?" The one finger traces a lazy figure eight around my breasts, which are, let's be honest, one of those things I try not to think about much. This is the wrong sort of body for this. For anything.

"Can't say any of those are particularly compelling."

"Maybe you imprinted on the Boss. Some people do." She settles down lower over me, sliding a leg between mine. Jeans against the slick fabric of her pants, and that I don't mind. It doesn't mean anything. "But I don't think so. Whatever you are so very into, Lee, it's deep in here." She taps me between the eyes, almost hard enough to hurt. "You are so far back in your own head. And when you talk, you're not talking about that. Like it's going to bite you if you let it out far enough for anyone else to hear." She presses a kiss to the pulse on my neck. "Don't worry," she murmurs in my ear. "You can keep as much in there as you want. All you have to do is tell me when to stop. Or...don't."

Julie presses her lips to my nipple. A touch of tongue, and then her teeth press together around it, while she settles a comfortable hand across the other. I ought to be making proper commentary and I'm _not_ because how is it that no one's tried that with this body before? (Or maybe they've only tried when I've been not paying attention, because usually I do not the way I am now.) And just when I'm about to protest because that pressure is edging toward pain that could make for bruises (and I refuse to explain that particular quirk to anyone ever again if I can help it), she pulls away. That smug smile. It's become her default, and she makes sure I see it before she switches to the other nipple. Like I am the audience for what she is doing so well.

I cannot argue. She is doing well. I can tell because it's increasingly difficult to think about anything other than her, and I am fine with that.

My hands are bored lying beside me, and if I leave them there we will end up with holes in the bedspread. What would Zabina say? Julie's hair (sleek and dark and longer than Ash's, mussed by the dancing and now this) slides between my fingers, and she makes an encouraging sort of noise. Or so I choose to interpret it. She's certainly not objecting, and she was the one who said--anything that isn't no is yes. That must go both ways.

Almost as if there's something fair or equitable in this.

She slides her mouth away to the spot between my breasts. Down to, ha, the breastbone, not kisses (as I have gotten before from people I am not thinking about, because the comparison is never fair, no matter which direction) but a scrape of teeth and determined tongue. When her chin rests against the waistband of these jeans, she pulls her hands down to unfasten the button there, and I sit up on my elbows. "Wait a minute."

"Sure, Lee." She rests her fingers against my skin in the space opened up with that button, two fingertips pushing ever so slightly at the top of that zipper. "Have a request?"

I don't want to be the only one getting naked, here. I don't know if I can ask for that. What am I supposed to do when I ask for something and it's not what she wants to do? (Besides bolt, and that's...embarrassing. I am not walking out of here like this, with Zabina sitting out there, and Julie damn well knows it.) It's like ripping the duct tape off an arm, after another one of those unfortunate incidents with certain demons. "There's too much clothing on around here," I point out, and get a grin out of her.

Like I'm the one who won something, this time.

"Good point," she says, and shimmies right out of her shirt. She drapes it in a pool of glitter across my chest. "We should still go shopping some time. Get you some clothes that you like."

"What I like, I don't think I'm allowed to wear on this job."

She strips her bra off, and flings it onto a suitcase by the dresser, where it hooks onto a handle and dangles there. "You would be surprised," she says, "at what sorts of compromises people are willing to make around here, if you show...willing. We don't all dress like Zee, and no one makes Trey wear a tie." She unzips my jeans, and moves off me. "Hips up, would you? That makes this--easier, thanks. If you really _want_ ties, though, we could have that arranged. No skirts is easy enough." When she has my jeans worked down below my knees, she uses a foot to shove them further, climbing back on top of me. "No underwear is apparently also easy enough, though I think Zee would quibble. She's so old-fashioned about some things."

"Is there an option where I don't have to care about what clothing I wear?"

"No," Julie says, in a cheerful honesty that I rather appreciate. "There's an option where you have someone else put together all the outfits so that you don't have to figure them out yourself, but that's about as close as it gets to not caring." She sits on my knees, hands on hers, looking down at my sprawl. "What we look like always matters."

"And that is how we can tell you're an Impudite."

"Guilty as charged." Julie drapes herself across me, pulling the shirt out from between us. "It's such a useful thing to be, how could I want to be anything else? I expect everyone feels the same way about their own Band." She rests her chin on my shoulder. "Relax. Unless you want to suggest something, in which case I'm listening, but this works just fine too. You look good and you feel good and you taste good, even if I don't _entirely_ agree with your soda choices in life."

I draw a hand along her back, and it is...fine. Like that's something we can just do, while she shifts about looking for whatever place on top of me she happens to prefer. "I drank whatever they served me, so you'll have to blame the bartender for that one."

"Oh, I _will_." Her lips to my throat make my pulse jump. But she only slides half off me, and down further, until her cheek is resting between my breasts. "This is less boring than the club, isn't it?"

"I'd have to say so."

"Good." She walks her fingers down my abdomen to between my legs. "I'd hate to think I was boring you. Did you know I can hear your heartbeat from here? Vessels are so...interesting. All the parts that fit together just so. It's easy to think of them as imitations of some human thing, but they're so complicated." I cannot help but think of Regan, with the way Julie's fingers settle down there. Even if she's not doing anything with them. "The good kind of complicated. I like having options."

"Lilim, Impudite, Shedite, Calabite?" That's probably not what I should have said, but it came to mind.

"Among others." She taps her fingers against my lips, left hand above pressing into my mouth and right hand below just resting there. "Give me a little help, would you? I don't want to hurt you, unless you like that sort of thing. In which case, all you have to do is ask."

I open my mouth for a finger, find myself with three in there and a thumb pressing against the corner of my lips. Makes it hard to ask, doesn't it? But I'm not sure if I want to. (Maybe I should be sure that I don't want to, and that I'm not is--maybe I should blame Regan and stop thinking about that too hard.)

"I would tell you what you look like," Julie says, "but you don't seem so into that, so I'll just tell you that _I_ like it. You should get a chance to try this. Maybe next time we can work something out." She drags her fingers out across my lower lip one by one, and grins at me. "Take a breath, and let it out. That should help."

And I _do_ twitch when she slides those three fingers inside me, as graceful and sudden a motion as any of hers, which I should expect by now. A twitch and a gasp of breath and nothing more embarrassing than that, while she presses her cheek against my chest and I am not sure I could get up, if she wanted to hold me down. Her vessel's not much taller than mine, but oh, she is stronger than I am.

"Did that hurt?" I can't hear her following chuckle, but I can feel it through her throat against my skin. "Not too much, I'm sure. Don't worry. I won't break anything important." She slips in another finger, well before I was expecting that. "And if I were careless enough to break something, I could fix it, so you're in very safe hands."

That's the problem with vessels. Four fingers inside me, no bleeding, and I'm pressed into complete focus on what Julie's doing, unable to think about anything that's not this and now, when I could handle a broken arm and bullet wound with more concentration left for other matters. (Maybe not very complicated matters, but still.) "I'd rather not break anything," I tell her, "regardless of importance level."

"See, there's a request." She twists her hand a half-turn, and settles her thumb above it. "There's an easy way to make all of this go better, you know. Don't tense up like that, Lee, _relax_ , and think about...whatever you like."

All the ones I like are so different from her. Balseraphs and Seraphim, Regan and Penny and I cannot _imagine_ Penny in here with me now, though the image might be nice if it seemed even as plausible as what I create for myself in the Marches. (Never made anything that looked like people, there. Figments are simple enough to put together, but I didn't like the idea of it.) Remembering him in the Marches, now, that's something. When he came to take me away from peace and quiet and destroy my life, but I can't blame him for that. Maybe I'm just a sucker for the way the cuffs of his shirt were fractionally too short for his bony wrists, or the curve of his eyebrows when he was frowning down at something I said.

I cannot think about him right now, because that would do me no good. What does me some good, what I _should_ be doing if there's any "should" in the middle of this, is paying attention to Julie, who's paying so much attention to me. She's nothing like Regan except for being pushy and ready to shove me down on a bed, and what's wrong with that? I always liked that about Regan anyway. And the edge of pain's subsiding in what Julie does with her fingers, that slow rotation back and forth that's not pushing anything further, just...waiting. For me to catch up with her.

"Better," she says, though I haven't done much of anything except for take a few deep breaths. "You'll do just fine at this, if you can relax and get into it. Like I told you earlier, you have to _want_ to have fun for anything good to happen."

"Doesn't guarantee it," I say, and wonder if I'm going to be reduced to sentence fragments again. She hasn't hit the point of making all my thoughts shatter into disconnected pieces, the way Zhune can when he puts his mind to it or I have bruises handy, but there's a certain narrowing of focus going on, and the physical distraction does make it harder to talk. Like I might say the wrong thing suddenly if I let myself go on too long about it.

"There aren't many guarantees in life. But I can almost guarantee you, Lee, that if you keep this up and work with me here, you will have a _very_ good time." She slides down along my chest, flexing her arm as if she's got a kink to work out of that from where she's been holding it, though her fingers stay right where they are. "Let me help you out some more."

Her cheek slides past my navel, and I work out what she means, and. No. "Rather you not."

"Why not?" She's slid her legs off the edge of the bed, and pulls back until she's resting her elbows on the bed, the rest of her on the floor. Looking down along me. "It's really no trouble."

Because I cannot think of anyone but Zhune and that's not who I want to think about in this. (Because it'll make this harder. Because maybe it would make this _easier_ , and I don't even want to consider what that would mean.) "Just don't," I say. "Hands are fine."

"Sure thing, Lee." She trails her fingers along the insides of my thighs, and then pushes at one of my knees. "Bend these up, and slide this way, it'll make this work better."

No coincidence that when I comply, and slide nearer, her fingers slide further inside me. Barely a change, as she has small hands for her small vessel. (Regan always had such elegant long fingers, and everyone continues to be taller than me.) Julie leans in, her breath warm between my legs, but she keeps a little distance. Enough to take my _no_ as an actual rule, at least for now. I don't know what to think about that.

I don't know what to think about any of this. Maybe I should stop trying. Wouldn't it be better to be able to give in the way I can with Ash, and enjoy the choices someone else makes? (He never goes wrong, and he is so careful, and I can't trust her the way I can trust him. But I can find out if she's trustworthy. A little trustworthy.)

"You are doing so well," Julie says, which is a little condescending, and I will not hold it against her now that she has her second hand giving me nothing but friendly attention, precise dramatic strokes to contrast the steady pleasant burn of her fingers inside me. "You're so lucky to have me, and I'm lucky to have you here. Who else is so lucky as you and I?"

"You and me."

Julie makes a questioning noise, and bends two knuckles outward on the fingers inside me.

"You and me. Object case. You're hyper-correcting in the grammar, it's. Uh. Never mind." I tilt my head further back, stare at the ceiling instead of at her. I swear, there was a time when I could make a decent conversation with strangers, much less acquaintances.

Maybe not under quite these circumstances. That hasn't come up much.

"Lee," Julie says, "if grammar talk turns you on, go for it." There's a grin in her voice, even if I'm not looking at her. "How are you feeling? Good?"

"Yeah," I say, digging my heels into the bedspread, to fight against the urge to, I don't know, spread wider or clamp together or leap to my feet or resonate a hole in something. "Pretty good."

"You're right where you ought to be, and doing what works best, and Lee, this is _exactly_ what we should be doing."

"Should, huh?"

"We want to do this," Julie says, "so that's about the same as _should_." She draws her fingers out of me, which I might protest if I could work out how to phrase that response. "Take a deep breath, babe, and see how you like this."

I tilt my chin down to watch what _this_ is likely to be, and she meets my gaze with a smile that--I cannot call it seraphic, but that is what springs to mind right now, waiting for me to do what she says. Which is not so unreasonable request. None of her requests have been unreasonable.

I force my shoulders back down from the incipient defensive curl, and take a deep breath, exactly as she suggested. She gives me a tiny nod, then curls her hand into a fist and pushes that right inside me.

Zabina must have heard that sound I just made, through the door and across that room.

"Relax," Julie croons, and holds right there. That hurts. That's amazing. That _hurts_ , but it's--existing pain, not growing pain, I can deal with this, this is not Regan slapping me around to prove a point, it's just...something. That people do. That we are doing. "You are so tight, Lee, I could not get away with this in my other vessel, but we're the right size for each other like this. You're not bored, are you?"

"No?" That's about the sentence length I can manage just now. Single words. I'm good there.

"Then we're good." She leans in, forearm slipping across the bedspread, and I would sit up to see where her wrist has gone except that I'm not sure how I feel about looking that closely, and maybe I am better off looking back at the ceiling and just. Not thinking about the details too hard. "Lee, babe, just keep breathing and I'll take care of this. You are doing fine."

"Am I?" What a stupid question to ask. I have a heel resting on her shoulder, don't know when that happened, like I could hook her in closer that way, and I'm not sure why. There is so much I don't know and it doesn't matter. This hasn't stopped hurting, it's not like before when the pain eased off as I let her go on, every time this starts to slide down a notch she slides in or spreads her fingers or I don't _know_ , it's not like I can see, but it's like. Regan's hand on my throat and the way she would look at me, it's nothing she ever did (she never had access to this vessel long enough to try and now I have to _wonder_ what might've been, later, I'll think about it later), but right when I'm getting used to this--like it's something I can just be accustomed to--Julie pulls her fist back right to where it hurts the most, and pushes back in.

"Just fine," she says, "you are so good, babe, you are the best thing that's happened to me all night."

I would like to believe that.

I can believe that because of the way this feels and what she means is close enough to truth, and this is what I _wanted_ even if I didn't know, and I swear I will not say anything embarrassing but all the same it's either sound or resonance and maybe it's better not to break anything right now, and so. I am making sounds that have no dignity in them and can't find it in myself to care, until I am whimpering and do clamp my legs together, right around her arm. Knee to knee and I am gasping there, while she holds still and waits for me to finish.

"You are something amazing," Julie says. She slides her hand out so carefully. All that hurts is what's already happened, and that's a different sort of ache now. "How are you doing?"

I should say something, but all I do is make a noise that probably means _don't worry about me, thanks_. But she climbs up on top of me, sits down on my hips, and drags her wet hand up my cheek and through my hair.

"I like you," she says. "Just look at how well we work together." She tilts forward to kiss me, and oh, I am ready to kiss her back. "We should do this more. Again. Some time, when you're up for it. Oh, you should see yourself. You are just--the most delightful thing."

Deep breaths, she said, and that's what I have, for putting my mind back together. "Need anything?"

"I'm _good_ , Lee, but it's sweet of you to ask. We should get cleaned up."

"Yeah." Do I want to walk to the bathroom looking like this? No. Definitely not. My alternatives are not clear. Resonating a hole in the wall between bedroom and bathroom would be a bad idea, and besides I think the shower shares that wall...

She wiggles her fingers in my hair. "We should break out the hair gel and see how you look with spiked hair some time, Lee. It could be cute. But later. Here, put this back on, we'll get you to the shower. You don't mind sharing, do you? The hot water lasts longer that way."

"I don't mind," I say.

I'm pretty sure that's true.


	19. An Interlude, In Which Other People Have Their Own Problems

Hot water cascaded over Lanthano's closed eyes. He scrubbed his fingers through his hair, and thought about...staying. Waiting for the water to run down to lukewarm. Chaixin would say nothing about that choice. She understood the need for pause and reflection. For space and silence, and nothing but the sound of water falling over skin and tiles.

But he was a professional, and he had work to do.

He tilted his head down, and opened his eyes. This body, this room, this set of hands filling with water. The sort of thing a demon could spend too much time brooding over if he didn't keep focused on more important matters. He flicked the water off, and found a towel still dry to take with him into the central room of the apartment.

Chaixin had draped his clothing across the back of a chair, because she was considerate to her employees. She spared him only a brief glance away from her work at the computers, because she was a Marquis of Theft doing the work still of two, and how could he complain--even only in his own head--about weariness when she worked so much harder than any of them?

Lanthano took his time in dressing. Better to do a job properly than quickly. (Right up until the moment when speed was all that mattered. Most Magpies couldn't understand the former, and most demons outside the Word couldn't understand the latter.) When everything hung or clung or folded just so, he knelt down on the floor beside Chaixin's chair, and let his head rest against her knee.

She laid a hand on the nape of his neck. Not looking down at him. She had work to do. "Finish the first round of analysis," she said. "You'll have more time then."

He knew. And she knew that he knew, and it was still reassurance, to point to the moment when breathing space arrived. "Next time," he said, "could we not bring Yuliang and Zabina both?"

"Next time," she said, "I'll have made my decision."

He closed his eyes, and listened to the hum of the computer. The rhythm of her breath and his. It was enough, and it was always enough, and he'd had far more difficult jobs than this. Some things were only more difficult in the last few years because of other circumstances. As if his patience and stamina and tolerance had all been shaved down thin, and he had to walk so much more carefully across the surface than once before.

When he rose to his feet, she laid a hand briefly on his shoulder. "You're doing well," she said. "Complete your work, and keep an eye on her. It'll suffice."

Most likely it would. Disasters and failures so seldom came from expected directions.

He put on his public face before stepping out of the apartment. There was no knowing who might be in the hallway.

Inside the second apartment, there were only three of the other four visible. Zabina sat at the dining table, her fingers clacking against the keys so sharply that he knew at once Yuliang had scored some point against her. Leo was curled into a corner of one couch, notebook across her knees like a shield and head bent over it, with on a flick of expression at his entrance to confirm that it was him.

Julie sat on the other side of the couch from Leo, her legs stretched out halfway. The acceptable boundary between them measured out to the centimeter, and then run right up against, as was entirely typical for her means of dealing with nervous creatures. She tilted her head back to smile at him, waving a stylus. "Exciting night out?"

"Hardly," Lanthano said, and kissed the cheek presented to him. "Nothing but work. I'll take some time off later today. You?"

"We had plenty of fun," Julie said. "You should've joined us." Her look towards Leo invited the Calabite to offer an opinion, or at least a reaction, but all it got was a more studious stare at that notebook. No, that was not a Destroyer who wanted to join this conversation yet.

"Maybe next time," Lanthano said, easy and casual, as if it were as simple as the explicit conversation made it out to be, and not a matter of layers and tensions that he'd have to navigate all the way. He dropped a lighter and pack of cigarettes onto the couch at Leo's feet, and continued onward, asking the Calabite over his shoulder, "How's work?"

"It's going fine," Leo said. Head still bent over her notebook, but one hand snaked out to pull in the presents and slip them into her jacket pocket. "I ought to swap to a computer at some point to start typing this up."

"I can get you one of those," Julie said. "How about this afternoon, before dinner? No real rush hour to hit on a Saturday, and it'll be fun."

"I'll get another this morning," Zabina said.

"There's no _need_ , Zee," Julie said, sweet as honey and with a believable sort of smile. "It's not that big of a hurry, and it's really no trouble for me to handle it."

"As I'm heading out in ten minutes anyway," said the Lilim, snapping the lid of her laptop closed, "I may as well pick it up while I'm out. It's no significant detour."

"You might as well," Julie said brightly. "Someone around here ought to be a model of professional efficiency! Buying things, and so forth." She settled back down with her tablet. Her feet slid a few centimeters nearer the Calabite. "Maybe you could get us all coffee while you're out? If you won't be too long."

"I can get the coffee," Leo said. She dropped the notebook on the couch between her and Julie, and slipped to her feet. "Where's Guo, anyway?"

"Finding a more appropriate host," Zabina said, as she slipped her laptop into a bag. "No need to get coffee for me."

"Need a list?" Julie asked.

"Same as last time?" Leo buttoned up her coat. "Then I believe I have it down. Back soon."

Lanthano took the vacated spot on the couch, and had most of a minute of quiet before Julie said, "Are you almost done with those files, Trey?"

"Almost," Lanthano said.

"Because I can't do my work for much longer unless I get _your_ results."

"I'm almost done." He picked up his tablet, and longed for a smoke break. Maybe after coffee. "I'll be done by Monday morning. Do you need the results any sooner?"

"That's soon enough." Julie propped an elbow on her knee, chin in her hand. "You've been pretty busy. Would it help if I kept an eye on Lee for you? One less thing for you to worry about."

"I think I'm fine, Yuliang."

"Because it's no trouble. I'm taking her with me to the meetup tomorrow anyway."

"Don't push him," Zabina said. "We all get our work done on time, and there's no need to bother anyone about what hasn't missed a deadline."

"I am not pushing," Julie said, and rolled her eyes. "I am _helping_. Seriously, if you're overloaded with taking care of Lee and your own work and Guo all at once--"

"I'm not," Lanthano said, with Trey in his mind as a filter for his words. That Impudite had no reason to be irritated at Julie being--herself. Not the way one Lanthano might feel about Yuliang, who could be his best friend in a heartbeat any time they met, so long as they weren't both wanting the same thing. "There's nothing to be worried about."

"Not anymore," Julie said, and with a smug little smile, she turned back to her work while the Lilim walked out the door.

Lanthano had questions, and responses. But he also had twenty employee files yet to review in detail and cross-reference with the rest. He turned his attention to his own work, and tried not to let his mind wander.


	20. In Which Due Diligence Is Not Well Rewarded

"It's surreal," I tell Ash. With decent boots on and no umbrella to manage, I can handle this absurdly steep hill and a cell phone at the same time. Not sure I want to try both at once on the return trip, with all the coffee.

"Maybe they're just that nice," Ash says. He has the lazy morning cheer of someone who actually likes sunrise and cold weather.

"No one is that nice. No one of our sort, anyway. Can't speak for the other side." Though my experience with angels suggests they're not all that full of warm cheer for others, either. I suppose there could be observer bias affecting that conclusion.

"I'm that nice," Ash says. There's a faint rustle of noise beyond his side of the phone, nothing I can place. Traffic outside his apartment, some high-tech gadget he's added to his kitchen, or, I don't know, maybe he went out and got a cat too. Who knew that demons kept pets? The non-human kind, anyway.

"Yes, but you're--not typical. I don't know. It's just weird." I slow down to wait for a crossing signal that I could have darted across. In a mood like this, I'd as soon take my time on this coffee trip. It gives me a chance to talk this through, and also to think this through. I can't really think straight about recent events when I'm in the apartment with other people. Too busy keeping an eye on everyone else.

"Maybe you should stop looking for problems, and enjoy it," Ash says. "What could it hurt?"

"Ash, given where you grew up, how plausible do you really think it is that this many people would be this nice? To me? I'm not the sort of person who inspires _nice_ from unusual places."

"Well, I like you," Ash says, "and I think more people ought to treat you decently, especially that asshole partner of yours, but your point is kinda taken." He sighs, a little dramatically. I can't hold it against him. We all find our fun in different places. "But they _could_ be sincere. Entertain the thought! For the novelty value!"

"I'll entertain it," I say, as the crosswalk light changes, "but only to keep you happy."

"That's very sweet of you, Leo."

I can't tell if he's being sarcastic or not. Not sure which I'd prefer, either. The kid (I cannot call him that when he is exactly as old as I am, but it feels that way, sometimes) is a breath away from saccharine at times, but he grew up in Shal-Mari, and he's got teeth too. He just doesn't bother to get snippy without good cause. I shoulder my way past some idiot human who thinks my height means he doesn't have to get out of the way when I'm walking, and consider my options. The ones that are useful, rather than paranoid wheel-spinning. "How hard would it be to find out who asked for information on me recently?"

"Easy as pie," Ash says, "but it would cost you. We have standard rates. People would get twitchy about asking for files if we handed out their names for _free_. And then of course some of them pay extra to not have their names turn up when someone asks who's been looking, though you can pay more beyond that to get past those sorts of blackouts, and there is a level where people can pay to have their name never come up at all as someone who pulled the file, though we'll still note that there are blacked-out requests that we won't give details on." He finally takes a breath. "So, how much information do you want?"

"What's the cheapest level?"

"For just one file? Any requests in the last year that didn't pay extra for secrecy. We'll tell you who made the request, and when. No details on whether or not they took out more than the basic information."

I stop outside the coffee shop, stepping to the side so that I don't block the entrance. It's that time of morning when everyone wants their caffeine hit. "And how much does that cost?"

"One day." Ash sounds apologetic. I'm never sure how to take that. "And I don't mean to _me_ , I mean to the organization. You swear to pay off the debt to any authorized representative thereof that calls it in. It's usually nothing terrible, a day's Geas only covers so much, but it's probably not the way I call them in, either."

No, probably not. Ash calls in Geases for a bottle of wine or a good book, a friendly visit where I arrive with his favorite take-out. I don't expect other Lilim to use debts the same way. Friendship has its privileges. (Or, in some cases, its drawbacks. But I haven't run into any of those with my favorite Lilim. We keep a safe distance from each other, and that works out well.) "I think those are fair terms."

"Swear to it?"

"I do," I tell him, and there's that sense of the Geas settling into place. In my celestial form, there'd be the visual effect as well, and Zhune _will_ ask if he sees it, but we don't move through Hell much. It probably won't come up. "How long until you have the results?"

"A few hours? I need to send the request through instead of checking myself, since I'm here on the corporeal. You should have seen the sunrise this morning, Leo, it was amazing. And my pigeon has acquired a boyfriend."

"Or a girlfriend."

"Okay, so I'm no good at sexing pigeons. Could be either. But I'm going to call it his boyfriend. Stop by soon, and I can show you how they'll both come down to eat from my hand at the same time."

"I'll do that. When I can." And who knows when that's going to be? Zhune's not quite petty enough to avoid the entire northeast just to keep me from visiting Ash, but he's good at finding reasons why I can't stop by, even for a few hours, when we're in the area. Fortunately, I'm just as good at finding reasons why I can, and breaking through his objections and obstacles. I guess we're matched well. "I'd better go. People are waiting on my coffee run, and I'm not going to be that asshole talking on his phone while ordering."

"Sure thing. I'll call when I have results."

It turns out that someone else has taken up the job of being That Asshole in the coffee shop today. There's always one during the morning rush.

#

When I get back, Guo's arrived as well, which means I can pass the Marquis's coffee to him and not have to worry about delivering it personally. If I'd thought about that before I offered to make the run, maybe I wouldn't have offered at all. The less often she has reason to remember my existence, the better.

Probably I would be in a better place all around if I had any good sense of long-term planning. I'm not sure where, but...somewhere else. Maybe I'd still be following Regan around, but with enough patience I might've found a way to point her in useful directions. She has an amazing ability to bounce back from disaster. Where could she go with that if she could avoid the "disaster" part of the experience? Where could I have ended up if I'd been willing to stick around?

But I wasn't, so it's not worth thinking about. At that point I might as well go over all the other decisions I've made, and that's...just not a good route to go. I am where I am, and how I got here only matters as a lesson for how to make better choices in the future.

I spend the better part of the morning outlining the report structure while other people do...other things. The things they carefully talk around the details of when I'm in the room, though really they could just text each other about the details as easily if they wanted to make it a little less obvious that they're keeping information from me. It's almost enough to make me want to start piecing together information--I have a few ideas already--to figure out what they're up to, but there is a very fine line in the service of Hell between _curious_ and _suicidally inclined_ , which I'd like to stay on the right side of. Besides, what does it matter? They're supporting the Marquis's Word, or her politics in Hell, or some combination thereof. The details aren't relevant to me and I should not care about any of it.

Zabina returns around noon, and deposits a laptop in front of me. Sleek and modern and running an OS that I am entirely unfamiliar with. I would resent that more if she didn't treat walking me through its operation with the brisk professionalism she couldn't quite manage for dressing me up back in that first city; this time, she's at least able to fake the implication that needing to have someone else tell me how to open the word processor and use the email client is perfectly standard and in no way a commentary on my poor relationship with technology.

Probably that's nothing I need. The way she implies a respect I certainly haven't earned from her. But it's nice to have anyway.

She finishes off by plugging in the headphones that theoretically go with my phone--I might have more reason to use them there--and opening up an audio program that confirms she was putting things on this laptop well before she got back to give it to me. "If you don't mind two input streams at once," Zabina says, while Julie and Trey pretend not to pay attention to us from their respective places on opposite couches, "you may wish to start on one of these."

Which is as near to an order as she's going to give me on something not actually mandated by company policy and the Marquis herself, I suspect. And Zabina does return to her own work immediately after that instruction, while I run through what she's set up there. Language instruction audio tapes. (Do they even call them tapes anymore? Never mind that.) Mandarin, French, German, Cantonese, Spanish. All geared for the business professional who wants to close a deal over lunch, order a good dinner, and chat with a hooker that evening.

It's nonsense. I don't need any of this. It's not even the sort of thing I can pick up in a week, even if I were focusing instead of multitasking.

I turn on the Mandarin program anyway, and begin entrusting my outline to the laptop's hard drive while a soothing woman's voice in my ear explains how to greet people I've never met before.

It's entirely unlike learning English. That was simply stamped into my brain, part of a complete package of _act like a plausible human down on Earth_ information that the Djinn who taught me built out on. I have known how to speak the language of Jane Austen and W.H. Auden since not that long after I was made. Around the time my first supervisor decided that I had enough brains to be worth training for corporeal duty.

Learning a new language the old-fashioned way, if this is indeed how it's done, is odd. Slippery sounds that I don't follow or pick apart properly slide through my ears. Right into my brain. By the time I've repeated the first lesson a half dozen times, I can't tell if it's starting to sound like language, or if I've just memorized the whole sequence well enough to fool myself into thinking it does.

Mid-afternoon, and I'm running through lesson three (Where are you from? I'm from the United States, where we figure one language was good enough for Jesus and it's good enough for us) when my phone lights up. Voice mail, rather than a call. I turn the language lessons off to check what Ash has left me.

"Hey," he says, half a breath after the recording has started. "I pulled your records, and you've had three lookups in the last year. Pretty recent was Valentin, an Impudite of Theft, though you know, we don't double-check IDs on this stuff. But usually the names are good. Before that was Eskarne, Djinn of the Game, back in the spring. Don't worry too much about that one, since it was part of a batch pull on Theft names. The Game does that now and again, we're pretty sure it's as much to compare what information we're storing against what they've picked up as any interest in individuals. Furthest back was Unathi, Habbalite of Gluttony, around the time I came downstairs. No one else. Call me back if you want to buy some more details, okay?"

It would be bad form to break things in here.

It would not be useful. It doesn't help. Breaking things only helps when there's a plan behind it, and I don't have a plan, except that I set my phone aside, and grab my jacket, and walk through Zabina and Julie's room, closing the door almost shut behind me. I open the window, climb out onto the fire escape, and close the window again. Straightforward. Smoke break.

It's convenient that Trey brought me cigarettes and a lighter, or I might break something, and most of what's breakable around here is either above me--and dropping things on my own head is a bad plan--or below me, and ditto for dropping myself on the concrete. Which means what I do instead is sit down cross-legged on the metal floor of the fire escape, mostly dry by now, and light a cigarette instead of anything else that I might have chosen to set on fire.

There's something about the smell of cigarettes that takes me back to college. Althea didn't smoke. Sort of pointless when you're surrounded by the burning lakes of fire within which the damned are tormented for eternity, and besides, she dealt with a lot of paperwork. My second supervisor smoked, and so I picked up the habit. Didn't actually do the breathing-in part for long, because I found it interfered with talking--what a fucking chatterbox I was, the instant anyone gave me a chance to talk without fear of being smacked down for it--but I loved the smell, the style, having something just a tiny bit dangerous in my hand to gesture with emphatically. Cigarettes make me think of Regan and Jane Austen and drafting tables. They're this tiny lingering connection to the who-I-was in the midst of this whole change in my habits and employment and appearance and everything else that Theft has done to me.

Maybe I just like the predictability of it. Even my own resonance betrays me sometimes, but fire's predictable. Light a match and watch it burn. Light a cigarette and watch it burn. Light up the world and watch it burn, but that was never allowed. There's got to be some control, no matter what reputation Firebugs have among their detractors. People talk about unpredictable wildfires, like it's not all physics down at its heart, regular as clockwork. You want to know why the fire switched directions? Blame the wind, the terrain, the water in the soil, not the fire. Fire is something you can count on.

Used to be I could walk through a forest fire and swallow the embers with a smile. Now I'm watching one cigarette burn down towards my fingers, and I am entirely aware of what it'll feel like if I let the red tip reach skin.

Zhune tells me that the past is the past. That there is no point in holding grudges, though remembering favors can be useful. That a botched job is a misfortune, but we move on. Pick yourself up and move on, do better next time, _relax_ , Leo, you take everything so fucking seriously. And I mean, he's right. I do. I overthink things. My life would be so much better--for me, not in any sort of cosmic sense that affects other people--if I didn't worry about things so much. Let things be. I should be used to letting things be, by now.

I have had so many opportunities to learn to move on.

Trey sits down beside me. I did not hear the window open. I _should_ have heard it, but he's there, and he plucks the cigarette out from between my fingers while I am just starting to feel the heat creeping toward me. "Smoke break?" he asks, and lights a cigarette with mine. Then a second, and he hands the new one back to me, tossing the sparkling red butt of my first down between the grated bars of the fire escape.

"Yeah," I say. "Seemed about time."

"Everyone needs some break time." He takes short draws of his cigarette when he smokes, and then breathes out these thin, endless plumes of white against the sky. "I heard it's supposed to clear up tomorrow, though there's no knowing with weather."

"Not unless you have a Habbalite around to ask."

"And who wants that?"

"Right."

We sit in silence after that bit of inane small talk, working through our respective cigarettes in our respective manners, and he does not comment on the way ash shakes off the end of mine even when I don't mean it to and I am sure he _notices_ , because there is no not noticing the way my hands won't stop shaking. Especially someone who can open a fucking window and climb through it six inches from my head without my noticing.

Maybe I'm a little distracted right now.

Bad form. It's bad form to get distracted. That's the way a Thief gets dead. (And maybe Trauma isn't the worst thing in the world. It's quiet in there. But I hate the way it fucks with my memory, because that's one of the few things I get to carry around with me wherever I go.) I watch my second cigarette go, and--it does not turn to powder between my fingers as I mean it to, so I let it drop. No, my resonance is not always on speaking terms with me. It's an old friend, but most of my old friends aren't on speaking terms with me at all these days, so maybe I should be grateful that one of them still sticks around most of the time.

Two cigarettes is the length of a smoking break. One if you're in a hurry to get back to work, two if you're trying to draw the process out. So when Trey's had one and I've had two--I don't even count my second as properly done until he's finished with the first, even though mine dropped down to the distant ground where someone will probably be annoyed at those careless thoughtless people who litter, and who will not know that I tried to be conscientious about the matter, at least briefly--anyway, at that point I stand up to climb back through the window. To the unlit room, nothing but the light through the window showing the bed and suitcases and dresser covered with hair products, where last night feels like it came from a different world entirely than this cold, gray afternoon.

The past is a different country. You can't live there again. I don't want to live there again, anyway. I was such an idiot when I was younger, smug and overconfident and sure that I was smarter than everyone else. Turns out that _smarter than_ only gets you so far, compared to things like _older than_ and _tougher than_ and, I don't know, everything from _more friends_ to _better equipment_.

I need to walk back through that door and be smart enough to do the work I was hired for. (I'm getting paid, probably. I need to talk to Julie about Songs, when I feel up to talking to her again.) It's a door for me to walk through, and that's all it takes. Walk back through and sit down and keep working like nothing has changed because _nothing has changed_. I am overthinking things when I have something else entirely to be thinking about.

This time, at least, I hear Trey come through the window.

"Something come up?" he asks. I think I would like--oh, I don't know if I would like it, but it would be _polite_ of him to be more casual about that question. Off-hand, like he's just idly curious, and ready to drop the matter. Like he's being a typical nosy coworker wondering if the phone message I got was anything exciting. But he does not sound casual, he sounds like he's serious, and I don't know how to deal with that at all. It's never anything other than an act. Zhune's the only one who cares and who I can talk to about anything important, and his caring is all full of hooks, like they warn you Lilim are.

"Old business," I say. "Nothing relevant right now." There. Truth. So true that even Penny couldn't find fault with it, though I suspect he would not like to hear anything related to things that I don't intend to talk about around him, anyway, so that doesn't matter. No point in bothering people about things that have nothing to do with them.

He pushes the window closed, and then slouches against it. Hands in his pockets, not so elegant as some poses he's made. I'm not sure when I stopped watching the door and started watching the window. Around when I was working out how to answer him, I think. "A call from your partner?"

"No, he doesn't have the number." I need somewhere to put my hands. I don't have anything to do with them now that the cigarette's gone, and folding them across my chest seems too defensive. "Wouldn't know how to give it to him, anyway, since I don't have his. We only use disposables."

"You could call," Trey says, and it takes me a moment to realize he means with Celestial Tongues. 

That's how slow I am right now. I can't work on the report right this minute or I will find myself writing _Buildings are made of walls and often these walls join at right angles, this is common to architecture of many organizations_ and drawing little frowny-face arrangements of doors and windows. Why did it not occur to me to give Zhune my new phone number with the Song, anyway?

Well, what would be the point? We don't talk over the phone. We talk in person, unless we're on the job. The phone is for snippy comments noting that someone should be in place already or where is that rope I needed, not for...chats. Conversations. 

I do not want to have a conversation right now, I do not want to have a conversation about my feelings and desires and interests with anyone ever again, and yet I am not walking through that door, which would get me away from such a threatening event.

I just don't want anyone else inside my head. Is that so much to ask?

"Didn't think of it," I say, too late for that to sound like the automatic answer, even if it's pretty much the true one.

"So it's something else," Trey says. I don't know if he's trying to be gentle or just practical. My ability to read tone is shot right now. Not sure I can even read text. This is so _stupid_ , and I have work to do.

"Yes," I say, and try to sound--I don't know, indignant? Like it's none of his business. I do not care about his feelings right now, or whether or not his overtures of friendship are genuine or Impudite or nefarious, I really do not. "It's something else, and it's really not relevant to the job, which I should get back to."

He raises a shoulder, and lowers it. Because, hey, he's in front of the window. Not the door. He is not keeping me from my work.

I wish my hands would stop shaking. I thought they had, but when I look at them, there's that tremor. Probably invisible if I hide behind my laptop. If I sit so that no one can see my hands, and stare at the screen intently, probably Julie and Zabina won't notice. It'll stop by dinner time. It'll stop any minute now, and Guo notices nothing useful, and there's no reason for the Marquis to speak to me again in the near future.

"If I come over there," Trey says, "you're not going to hit me, are you?"

"I don't bite," I say.

He crosses the room in three long strides, and sits down on the edge of the bed, where he has to look up at me, instead of the reverse. "It's only that you looked like you might," he says conversationally. "So I thought I'd check first. Didn't want to crowd you. You want me to keep guessing as to what the call was about, or shut up on the topic?"

What I want is a case of beer and Zhune holding me the way he did in front of people who thought he was something else entirely. Or Regan telling me that I love her. Anything but here and now, surrounded by strangers I can't trust and wondering how I was ever stupid enough to think that some danger was over just because I had walked away from it.

(I didn't walk. I had to be carried. If Zhune were here I'd be all right. I only fall apart when he's not around. I mean, except for when he's making me, and that's different.)

"Shut up, I guess." I shove my hands through my hair, stupid red hair that makes me look like a girl no matter how short I try to cut it when Zhune's not looking, and. There. My hands are shaking anymore. Doesn't mean I'm fine, but since when does fine mean anything? What matters is being able to fake it well enough to get the job done and not draw awkward questions. Or people trying to get their teeth into the open wound. Demons are like sharks and dogs. They smell blood and fear.

Trey spreads his hands, and says nothing.

Which makes me feel like I ought to say something. Might be deliberate, I don't care. I'm tired of caring about this sort of thing right now. Petty social maneuvering when I could be thinking about things I don't want to think about. When I could be thinking about the job, how about that. So. Plausible explanation, close enough to true that if they do have my phone bugged and all my voice mail played back for their amusement, it won't come across as a complete lie. "It's some old business," I say, "that I wasn't expecting to hear about today, but it's really not relevant. To work."

"Lots of things aren't relevant to work," Trey says. "It's none of my business, though, I can tell that much." He tilts his chin back to look up at me, maybe more than he has to. "I thought maybe your partner was giving you a hard time, was all."

"No, he--" Will save that for later. "--won't. Probably doesn't like this much, but he's a Djinn. He'll find a series of walls to stare at until I get back." And my brain is starting to turn on again, because it clicks that Trey really thought that would all be because of a talk with Zhune. Like I could not handle one voice mail from the man I work with and live with and cannot get a moment's space from every day of my life. "He's not as bad as you probably think."

"It would be a high standard for him to meet," Trey says, and he is being light, at last. This is an act, and he's not really trying to cover up that it is, but we can do this. Talk about things like we're having an amusing little conversation about nothing at all. "Given what I've heard. The reality is unlikely to reach the goals set by the rumor and legend."

"He's really not bad." I sit down beside Trey, because I have to sit down or I will do. Something. And I'm not as much shorter than him when we're sitting, anyway, and this way I don't look at his face directly, and he doesn't look directly at me. "He has, ha, high standards. So there's that. But he's a good partner."

"Is he?"

Well, that was carefully neutral. Politer than being expressly disbelieving, so credit where it's due for trying to maintain a pretense that he believes me. "Sure. He watches my back. Lets me take the lead when I have a good plan. Gets our jobs in order. Handles payment issues when I don't want to, which is usually."

"That's about what I expect a partner to do," Trey says, "but it's like advertising for a car with 'Four wheels, engine starts properly, headlights work.' If you consider that an endorsement--"

"I've had worse."

"Seriously?"

"No, I mean--" I find myself waving a hand like there's still a cigarette between my fingers. I wish there were. "He never talked me into getting myself killed, and my previous partner did that to me twice."

"Leo," Trey says, "have you ever heard the phrase 'damning with faint praise'?"

I want to curl up under the covers and stare out the window until sunset hits. Easier than explaining. But that's not an option, it's this or walk back into that other room, and I have not glued myself back together well enough to walk past Julie and Zabina yet and pretend that I'm still okay. "Maybe I'm not explaining it well. Or maybe it's just that we're demons, if you haven't noticed, and we're not so great with things like selfless devotion to other people, partners or otherwise. 'Will try to keep me from being killed' and 'Shows up on time to get the job done' may be bare minimums for a partner, but they're still a higher bar than a lot of demons are ever going to leap. So I will _take_ it, especially when I was lucky enough to get assigned that in the first place."

"If you want to know what I think," Trey says, "which possibly you don't, it's that you've had a bad run of partners if you're impressed by competence. Any one of the people out there would do that much for me. Even Guo, and he's a scaredy-cat kid with barely two Ethereal Forces to rub together. But he'll back me up and try to help if I need the help. There are a few people working for the boss who I don't much like, and the feeling's mutual, and they would still take a bullet for me if that's what it came to. Just like I would for them. It's what you do for the people you work with."

"It's what you people do," I say, and I am not convinced he's telling the truth, either. "Or it's what people like to think they'd do, because it sounds good, right up until the chips are down. I worked with the War, and god, they love to talk about loyalty and honor and sticking together as a team, but it was still always me standing at ground zero and 'You get to make the sacrifice for the greater good' when it came right down to it."

"We aren't much into the greater good," Trey says. "We work for the boss, and we all owe her. And she tells us to work together and play nicely and stick together, and we owe her at least that much. So we do. People who can't manage that don't work for her." His hand lays on the bedspread between us, fingers wide, not so close as to touch me. Just there. "Some of the people in the company talk about how we deserved better than where we came from, but I don't think deserving it has anything to do with it. We got lucky. The right person found us and stole us or bought us or whatever was necessary to get us each out of where we used to be, and that...deserves something. In return. I've never had a partner like you do, but if it's a good partnership, I expect it should work like that in both directions. Actually being owed more than the default because that's what's given." He snorts faintly, not a sound I expected from him. "And I know enough about _your_ partner burning through people he worked with to think that you could do better, but like you said. It has nothing to do with work."

"Nothing lasts forever anyway." I scratch a fingernail against the bedspread, and do not dig further with my resonance. If I could keep it under control last night, I can damn well keep it locked down now. I am in control of myself. I will be just fine.

"No," Trey says, "nothing does," and I swear his voice catches at the end. But when I look at him, he only looks...wry. Not like he sounded. "You ever want to talk about what was in the call, tell me. You don't, that's fine. But if you don't want Julie asking nosy questions, imply it was your partner. Everyone in that room is willing to believe that would make you--annoyed. Especially Zabina."

"What does she have against him, anyway?"

"Besides the same things everyone else does? I think she blames him for how you were dressed."

I'm wearing mostly clothes that she picked out for me, and I am suddenly so desperately glad that the shoes and shirt are not what she got me, even if they're from Trey instead. (It helps, somehow, that I didn't ask before borrowing another shirt. I'm not entirely wearing presents from other people.) "That's ridiculous. I can dress myself. And I do, when Lilim do not sweep in and decide that I should be--more white collar."

"She blames him for it anyway," Trey says. "It's useful, because I think anything you've done that she didn't approve of she'll happily blame on his bad influence if you want to play it that way."

"I'm not that desperate for her approval. But I'll keep the option in mind."

Trey smiles at me sideways, a moment of conspiracy between us that is entirely artificial and still there. If I must be honest with myself, and it's not that bad an idea to do so about this particular topic, I think I would like to kiss him. Not in this body, not at this moment, certainly not in _this_ room.

But I know better.

I slide to my feet. (Some people can sit on the edge of a bed like this and have their feet rest on the ground naturally, the lucky bastards.) "That's a lot more cigarette break than I think I've earned. Sorry to push you away from work. I'm not as fucked up as I may have just given the impression of being."

"I needed a break anyway," Trey says. "I don't mind."

Probably a lie. I will take it.


	21. An Interlude, In Which Opinions Vary

2:34: Yuliang to Lanthano  
 _is she ok? (◕︵◕)_

2:45: Yuliang to Zabina  
 _trey isnt answering his texts (◕︵◕)_

2:46: Zabina to Yuliang  
 _Have you considered the possibility that he’s busy?_

2:48: Yuliang to Lanthano  
 _treyyyyyyy you have been in there 4eva ಠ~ಠ_

2:59: Yuliang to Lanthano  
 _treyyyyyy y arent you answering me 〴⋋_⋌〵_

3:05: Yuliang to Zabina  
 _do u thk theyre getting it on??? ◔_◔_

3:06: Zabina to Yuliang  
 _No._

3:07: Yuliang to Zabina  
 _Z how do u tell??? v( ‘.’ )v_

3:08: Zabina to Yuliang  
 _Judging by last night, she would be making more noise._

3:09: Yuliang to Lanthano  
 _if ur getting it on not in my room w/out me its not fair ».«_

3:10: Yuliang to Lanthano  
 _treeyyyyyyy_

3:22: Lanthano to Yuliang  
 _no we weren’t and back off already, would you?_

3:23: Yuliang to Lanthano  
 _longest cig break eva tell me all (｡◕‿◕｡)_

3:25: Lanthano to Zabina  
 _please distract J. or steal her phone. will pay you back, i swear._

3:28: Zabina to Lanthano  
 _This is not any of my business._

3:28: Yuliang to Lanthano  
 _treeeeeyyyyyyy_

3:29: Yuliang to Lanthano  
 _treyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy_

3:30: Yuliang to Lanthano  
 _srsly thano what is up w/her??? ಠ~ಠ_

3:37: Lanthano to Yuliang  
 _some message she didn’t like. i’ll check it out later. can’t now. doing work so you can do work._

3:38: Yuliang to Lanthano  
 _just so long as everything is ok!! (✿◠‿◠)_

3:39: Yuliang to Lanthano  
 _no kissing? (◕︵◕)_

3:47: Lanthano to Yuliang  
 _working, J._

3:48: Yuliang to Zabina  
 _srsly they were getting it on ^( '-' )^_

3:49: Zabina to Yuliang  
 _If you cannot spell full words, Yuliang, I will not waste my time trying to interpret your phone art._

3:50: Yuliang to Zabina  
 _SERIOUSLY & they r wings_

3:51: Yuliang to Zabina  
 _thano is trying to steal my girl_

3:59: Zabina to Yuliang  
 _Theft, darling._

4:00: Zabina to Lanthano  
 _Congratulations._

4:07: Lanthano to Zabina  
 _i don’t even want to know what that’s for, do i?_

4:08: Zabina to Lanthano  
 _Probably not._

4:15: Yuliang to Lanthano  
 _⎝↯⎵↯⎠next win is mine!!! ヽ(｀Д´)ﾉ_

4:23: Lanthano to Yuliang  
 _working, J._


	22. In Which Warnings Are Ignored

Sunday morning dawns with its traditional overcast, but by nine in the morning the sky's an astonishing blue, clouds shoved away by the wind snapping down the streets. I've finished my first draft of the outlines for both reports, and I'm most of the way through a slow revision of the one for Lightning, because I worked through the night while making some vague noise about getting reading done.

I now know how to introduce myself and other people in Mandarin, which does me absolutely no good when any of the other demons in the apartment break into bursts of chatter in what is, I think, that language. With my luck, it's Cantonese or Korean or something else that I still can't identify properly, but at least if I am suddenly stranded in China through circumstances beyond my control I'll be able to give out my name before being rendered mute and helpless. The language recitation has turned into a soothing murmur in one ear as I fiddle with the organization of sections about windows, foundations, hallways, doors, and roof angles. There actually hasn't been anything about roof angles on any of the blueprints or layouts the Marquis gave me, but I can extrapolate usefully with a high degree of confidence from what I've seen already.

You will not find a building designed by Lightning in an area that receives heavy snowfalls with a flat roof, is all I'm saying.

"Lee," Julie says, somewhere between the end of morning coffee and the section I'm trying to expand on doors, or decide if maybe a digression on lintels is a bit beyond what any amateur wants to read about when they're just sussing out if a building has Lightning or Technology metaphorically stamped on it, "are you ready to go?"

"Go?" I pause the language program, which is explaining how to say _I am from the United States_ , which is at least as true as any other place you could slap into the "from" section in that sentence.

"Out! You said you'd come along." And now that she's beaming down at me, I do recall something of the sort from night before last. "We'll travel far enough to reset the clock, and just look at this weather. You wouldn't want to sit around inside on a day like this anyway."

"I don't see why not. Everyone else is." Which is a pro forma objection, as I'm already closing the laptop up. I dig my bag out from under the couch, and make sure my phone's stored inside. It's like being back at work at the architectural office all over again, except with a more dangerous supervisor and friendlier coworkers. I'm still not sure if that balances out.

"Not everyone. Trey has _work_ to do, and I'm sure Zee is busy with...all sorts of things, she usually is." Julie has a sparkle to her eyes and her voice as she slides across the hardwood floor in her bare feet, and she flashes her smile at the Lilim before sitting on the edge of the dining table to pull on her shoes. "And Guo's out finding another host, I think. Poor kid never gets to stick with anyone for long, but he has to learn how to deal with that. He's not good enough at subtle to ride one human safely for more than a few days."

"You'll want the car," Zabina says. To Julie or to me, I'm not sure which, but she holds out the keys without looking up from her computer, and I take them before Julie can try to do anything annoying to make some point in the ongoing struggle for social dominance.

I do pass the keys back to Julie once we're out in the hall. Much as I'd rather drive, I shouldn't insist on it, and I don't know where we're going. "So is this trip business or pleasure?"

"Six of one, half dozen of the other..." Her smile's always charming. I'm not sure Impudites know how to do otherwise. "Mostly business, but it's such a nice day! We ought to enjoy it." She loops her arm into mine, like--no one else ever has, really, unless I was with someone while we were both pretending to something for other watchers. But Julie makes it feel natural, like this is how we would always walk down the hall together. Like there's some actual "always" to refer to. "Anything you want to pick up while we're out? You've got so little luggage, there's a perfectly good excuse to take the time to buy--nearly anything, really. What would you like?"

"I'm not much into shopping." Which makes me sound...I don't know, not exactly petulant, I'm not being rude about it, but it's one more in the long list of things I don't want to do that everyone else seems to enjoy. There's no reason for me to agree with everything that other people want, but it feels childish to be saying no to every little thing.

Like I don't even know how to enjoy myself anymore. Or like I'm suspicious of everything offered to me, regardless of the source.

Maybe I should be. I am dealing with demons.

"It's not always shopping," Julie says, in the elevator. She watches both of us in the mirrors, while I stare at the doors. "Sometimes it's just looking. Or taking. First the one, then the other... But sometimes it's fun to pay, too, just for the satisfaction of it, and because why bother having cash if you can't use it? Do you need any? It's the sort of thing Zee never thinks to give people, like it's all credit cards and expense accounts."

"If I desperately need to buy something, Julie, I'll let you know."

She spins around and kisses me, when I'm not expecting it. And I suspect she's watching our reflection in the mirror while she does it.

"Lee," she says, "you're in good hands." The door opens, and she spins away from me. Light on her feet and ready to drive. "Let's go have some fun in the sun, for as long as it lasts."

#

Traffic's a horrible snarl, the result of every person in the city trying to get out and take in the sunny weekend day at the same time. But it's not _my_ problem, so I can sprawl in the passenger seat and watch the scenery pass by--very slowly--while Julie chatters about heists she's pulled and entertaining humans she's known. Most of her work seems to fall solidly in the camp of basic cons, with maybe a human foil while she does the real work. A few second story jobs, a little shoplifting... It's solid Theft work. Unfair of me to consider it petty, when it's only a hobby for her, not her real work. But I don't really find the minor types of theft very interesting.

Zhune would say they have no style, though he picks pockets for the hell of it, and I can't think of anything with less style than that, except outright mugging. I just find them...boring. We don't need most things--strictly speaking, as demons we don't need anything on this planet but air to breathe--and so if there's nothing exciting about the work, or no client, why bother? It could just be that people who are Theft to the bone, instead of recent transfers, find the thievery its own reward.

Give it another ten years, and maybe I'll feel that way too. If I live that long.

Oh, let's not think about that right now.

"What's the business part of all this?" I ask Julie, when she hits one of those pauses where she waits to see if I want to change the topic or interject something before moving on. I suspect she'd be as happy to have a conversation as a monologue, if I really felt like talking, and I ought to put some effort into being sociable. It does make it easier to get along with these people and through this job, even if it has some side-effects.

"There's someone I need to meet," she says, forearm resting over the top of the steering wheel while we're stopped at another light. "A sort of hand-off thing, you don't need to worry about the details. It won't take more than a few minutes, and then we can spend _hours_ out and about if we want to."

"Someone I'm supposed to meet? Because so far everyone's been pretty careful not to tell me what's going on."

"No one you need to meet, but things _happen_ , Lee. That's why I'm bringing backup. Which would be you. While I'm dealing with this guy, you can do whatever you want, not so far away, and if there's an emergency, I'll call."

"If you're expecting real trouble--"

"Nothing serious! But. It never hurts to have backup along. Just in case."

Which I cannot disagree with, as that defines pretty much my entire Theft career. (And look how well it went the one time I ran into trouble with no reliable backup, just cobbled together packs of unreliable allies.) "Sure. Just don't ask me to punch anyone and we'll be good."

"Nothing like that," Julie says. "We're meeting up somewhere safe. Even if things go south, it's not going to get _violent_."

It's amazing how many things can go violent when you're not expecting it. Zhune lost a vessel once when we were just meeting someone for lunch. To be fair, we were meeting a Seraph of Trade, and that was a bad plan right there, though it sort of worked out--beside the point. "What kind of safe?"

"We're going to Pike Place Market," Julie says. "Lots of crowds, and way too many listeners for anyone to pull out suspicious disturbance. It's the best kind of neutral ground, because neither of us wants to make trouble."

"Wait. A minute." My attention is on her, now, and not the scenery, which ought to make her happy. "Isn't that the Trade Tether?"

"Not the _whole place_ , Lee, though they do kinda swarm there. But that's the point! The Trade Tether's near there, and they're not the kind to get violent easily, but with a Kyrio for a Seneschal and angels around in general, no demon is stupid enough to cause trouble in the area, either. Besides, you'll like it. On a day like this all the stalls will be open, along with the usual shops, and there is so much to look at."

"No," I say, carefully and calmly. "No, this is a terrible idea. I cannot go walk up to a Trade Tether. This is dangerous and it's not something I should do."

"Relax," Julie says. "I've been here before. They're not aggressive, they're not everywhere, and there are _crowds_ of humans. Safe as houses."

Given the number of houses I've destroyed in one way or another, that saying has never been very reassuring to me. "I've run into Trade before, Julie. They know what this vessel looks like. More than one of them do."

"Did you rob this Tether before?"

"Well, not _this_ one--"

"Or run into anyone who's stationed here? Bump into Trade while you were in Seattle?"

"Not specifically," I say, and I'm not sure how I'm losing this argument when I'm making a valid and important point. "But it's Trade--"

"It's a whole big Word," Julie says, soothing and sweet like she's talking Guo down from one of his flustered moments. I do not appreciate that tone of voice. Even less for wondering if she's right to use it. "Lots of people in it, and what are the chances that you'd run into someone who happened to see you rob some other Tether of theirs? And if you _do_ , which is wildly unlikely, they're probably just going to keep an eye on you to see if you go near the Tether locus. Which you won't! So it's fine."

"I just think it's not a risk worth taking. Drop me off somewhere else, and I'll catch up with you later."

We've hit another red light, and she turns in the driver's seat to look at me directly. Serious, now, staring me right in the eyes like she means this. And it's probably as much an act, or as little an act, as the sparkle and charm. "Lee," she says, "I'm not about to go all ‘Let's take random risks, it's fun!' at you, because that's not really how you get to be an old and experienced demon in our line of work. But I do need backup, here. Trey's up to his eyeballs in work, Zee's not who you want to show up if things get sticky really _fast_ even if she's great at the slow and subtle stuff, and...I can't ask Guo for help, here. He could follow close behind, but he's only got six Forces! That's no backup at all if things get messy. Which they probably _won't_ , just like they probably won't get tricky for you, but this job's important. And I want to be careful. So all you need to do is wander through this place with hundreds of other people, and wait to see if I call. Then we can ditch right after the appointment. Please?"

"It's a bad idea," I say, and we both know I'm going to do this, because I did not say no.

"Sometimes there aren't very good options left," Julie says. "Maybe I should've told you sooner, so I could've brought Trey instead. But it's too late to turn around now, especially in this traffic. And if _you_ get into trouble, you can call me, right? Zee did make sure you had that Song down?"

"She did."

"Then it'll be fine. You can count on me to show up if there's trouble." She puts a hand on my knee, as the light's turned green and she has to focus on the road or get rear-ended by an irate SUV. "If you run into some _obscene_ level of trouble, Chaixin's right in the city, and there's nothing in the world that she can't handle."

And I will walk into a Trade Tether and chat with the Seneschal over coffee myself before I call in the Marquis for help. But I'm not about to say that out loud. "Just consider my objection registered," I say, and tilt my head back, closing my eyes. I don't want to think about this much.

"Totally registered. How about after the appointment, we go to Uwajimaya? That's _not_ Trade, though I think it could've been just as easily, so it's all the shopping fun without all the angels littering the place." She pats my knee, and her fingers slip across my thigh and hip before her hand moves away entirely. "We should talk about what Song you want to learn, too. That'd be a good time for it."

"I don't know what my options are."

"I have _so_ many Songs," Julie says. "They're so handy! You've already got a bit of Form, right? So it'd be easy to pick up more of those. Or Tongues, those are really handy, especially if you travel. Motion's a good one too, in all its variations, and then there's Forbidding. Have you ever tried the ethereal one from that set? Or had it tried on you, it's kinda weird, but still. Really useful. It's like being a tiny bit Lilim in an emergency."

I make non-committal noises, and try not to think about inconvenient things. Or worry. Worrying doesn't help when I can't do anything in response to it, which is...often. Especially when someone else is calling the shots.

#

By the time we've actually hit the edges of the market, I don't feel quite so on edge. We had to park expensively and distantly, and it's a hike down streets that have only dried out this morning to get to the entrance itself. Julie's all cheerful reassurance, and after a point it's hard not to let her be right. I'd like her to be right, after all. I'd like this eerie chain of things being strange but okay to continue for a full week. It would be some sort of record.

(It's not okay. I am surrounded by strangers and I cannot trust any of them. It only feels okay, and especially around all these Impudites, shouldn't I be suspicious of that? I should.)

Julie has her arm looped in with mine again, and we're...ambling, I suppose, taking a leisurely stroll down the street to the bustle and noise of this center of commerce. It's not exactly about commerce in the way banks and stock markets are, but I can see how Trade would get hooked in here. All these individual people showing up in the same place to deal in small numbers for their personal satisfaction. Even back in Fire, we knew that it wasn't just about numbers, for what made Tethers and pushed Essence towards the Word. Sometimes it was about what got in close and personal to people.

"I never got the thing with the fish," Julie says, and we stop like tourists--in a tiny flock of them, this not being the season for Seattle tourists, but a few made it this far anyway--to watch men fling dead fish back and forth behind a counter. "It's not that hard to catch something like that. Sure, they're big and slippery, but big makes it _easier_ , not harder. Catch arrows, and I might be impressed."

"I don't think there's as much market for arrows around here," I say. "Maybe they should toss mice instead. That'd be exciting."

"Hard to see from a distance." Julie presses her shoulder against mine, slipping out of the way of someone pressing past us. "How about glass spheres? Sparkly and fragile. And for extra fun, they could grease them first."

"I'd watch it."

"See? A much better idea." She tugs me away, and we wander through the crowd, away from the men with the fish and into the tangle of inside and outside lanes that make up this place. "Look at that kid. Is that a _snowsuit_? Seriously, it's not much below eight degrees out, and his parents have him dressed like it's freezing. Don't they get real snow around here, to be able to tell the difference?"

It's twenty minutes of poking through this shop and that stall--frankly, I'm a bit surprised to find there's a store for musical instruments tucked away in the place, though every instance of hand-made soap or silk scarves makes sense--before Julie peels herself away from me. (I am more relieved to get freedom of movement back than I am disappointed to lose the contact with her. I don't need someone else holding my hand.) "I'll catch up with you soon," she says, and kisses me on the cheek. This is the kind of place where that gets a few second looks, but no comments. "Go have fun without me."

"I'm not sure that's possible," I say, and she laughs. "Call if you run into anything exciting."

"You know I will."

When she walks away, people watch her. And maybe I do too. She's not my type, insofar as I have a type that's represented in any particular way by human shapes. But it's--nice, okay? To be able to get along with someone, even if it's all pretense. I so seldom meet demons who I can hold a polite conversation with for more than a few minutes without it devolving into some sort of competition or outright fight.

Maybe Zhune just doesn't introduce me to the right people.

I'd as soon stick close to Julie, so that if trouble comes up, I'm nearby. But I'm not supposed to so much as catch sight of the man she's meeting, and this is not an area on which I am so curious that I want to risk breaking rules the Marquis has laid out. So I shove my hands in my pockets--it's not cold enough for snow suits, but it's still nippy, despite the sunshine--and go wandering through the labyrinth of the interior hallways. This isn't even a mall surrounded by a marketplace; the ups and downs and twists aren't claustrophobic, but you wouldn't find anything like this layout in one of those soul-sucking sprawls that infest most cities. More fun than a strip mall, more interesting than a department store...

But I was telling the truth. I'm not really interested in shopping, and I'm bored in three minutes flat.

At the four minute mark, someone taps me on the shoulder.

"We ought to talk," says someone who is maybe a Cherub and almost certainly a Trader and _not_ anyone I wanted to see today. I have not seen this woman since I was borrowing her couch in the middle of a desperately confusing sequence of events, and I was sort of hoping to keep going with that excellent track record a while longer.

"Tess," I say. "What a surprise. I'm a little busy right now."

"You appear to be window-shopping," she says. She hasn't changed perceptibly since I saw her last. That Cherub sort of build, and a way of sizing me up that suggests she knows exactly how much of a threat I pose, and it's _not much_ compared to whatever she can do in return. "Were you planning on stealing something?"

"Would you be likely to break any of my limbs if I tried?"

"It depends," she says, "on whether or not we're counting knees as a limb." I honestly cannot tell if she means that as a joke or not. She's very good at keeping a straight face.

It's probably not a joke.

I shrug, and try to look--innocent? Ha. Bored, I guess, as the safest response under the circumstances. "I'm just killing time. I have no designs on your precious local commerce. And believe me, if I'd known you were around, I would've made sure to have my lack of designs on it a safer distance away."

"If you're killing time," she says, as precise as a Seraph, "then you have time for a conversation."

"Is this the sort of conversation that's likely to end with someone trying to handcuff me? Because that usually doesn't go real well, all around."

"It's unlikely," she says, which is not the same as no. But I am alone in a crowd and there are too many witnesses for me to just disappear, and she's the one with allies. With an enormous Kyriotate ally who could be _anyone_. I know just how handy--and dangerous--that is. "I'm not currently planning on dragging you off, but I may change my mind if you refuse to have a polite conversation."

"I can do polite." I smile at her, sharp and toothy. And if I get jumped--oh, I can figure things out if it comes to that. Maybe Julie can pull out a fancy Song and save me. She'd probably enjoy that, playing the rescuer, but it probably wouldn't be worth the pain that would result with the Marquis and oh _hell_ , I am not looking forward to what'll happen there if she finds out. (Can I risk not telling her? One thing at a time.) "So talk."

"Let's not stand in the hallway blocking traffic." When she reaches out a hand I have to brace myself against flinching, but it's only to check her watch. "I know a cafe that will be open by now. And I promise that I won't be drugging your soup."

Which is how I end up sitting down at a tiny two-person table in the corner of an overpriced cafe, while a Cherub of Trade orders us both soup and coffee. I would rather have beer and beer, thanks, but apparently that's not on the menu. And she's sat me with my back to the door while she has her back against the wall, which is a dirty trick. I'm sure she knows exactly how happy that makes me.

Much like she knows exactly how much of a bind she has me in. I can't raise too much of a fuss, when she has a Kyrio on her side and knows this place. Probably knows the local security, too. I do not like this, and if Julie calls for help, I _will_ drop invisible and run, regardless.

But until then, I am a very polite Magpie, who is not interested in stealing so much as a fork. (Not that I would anyway. Silverware's worth crap, even if it's made of silver, with any of the places we pawn things.) I fold my hands in my lap, and stare back at Tess while she takes her own sweet time deciding what she wants to talk about.

I think she's just fucking with me, honestly, but, hey. Story of my life.

The soup arrives at the same time as the coffee, and Tess dips a spoon into her bowl. "He worries about you," she says, and watches me steadily.

I take a spoonful myself, which does not quite adequately cover my expression but does give me a moment to think about my response. It's egg drop soup, almost hot enough to scald the inside of my mouth. We had a similar recipe two nights back at the apartment, and I'm not sure if this version or Trey's is better. "Not really my problem, is it?"

"No," she says. "If you considered it your responsibility, you would do something about the matter to fix it. But you don't. You call him up and leave him upset, then go silent again. If you cared about how he felt, I can't imagine you'd act that way."

Which just goes to show what she knows. She's playing dirty, and I refuse to engage in this game. "Do you expect me to to care?"

"Yes," she says. She rests her spoon on the edge of her bowl, and observes me so calmly through the steam that I could think she was an Elohite instead. "You keep calling. You must expect to get something out of it, and if you only wanted to hassle some angel whose phone number you had, you could do that easily without telling him the sorts of things you do."

"Really? What sorts of things are those?"

"I wouldn't know," she says. "He is not careless with secrets." She sips her coffee, and takes a bite of soup. Every move precise, like it's a separate language that I don't know, where she's choosing her words just as carefully as she is in English. "Why don't you follow him home?"

"Why should I?"

"When you answer a question with another question," she says, "I am reminded that you have more experience than most demons in speaking with Seraphim, and I begin to wonder what it is that you don't want analyzed for truth. How do you like the soup?"

"What?"

"How do you like the soup?" She holds up a spoonful by way of demonstration. "Surely there are no catches in that question."

"It's fine, it tastes like soup, I'm pretty sure that's what it's supposed to do." I gulp back coffee--it's terrible, black and hot and not even as good a specimen of that as I could get from Ash--and manage not to make a face at the taste. "I hope you're planning on paying for this, because I don't have any money on me."

"Window-shopping," Tess says, and sounds almost bemused. Good. More than one of us ought to be uncertain about what's going on, here. "What are you really here for?"

"Nothing that has anything to do with you or your coworkers or your place of employment." I suppress a scowl. It would imply far more emotional involvement in this stupid conversation than is quite appropriate. "And if you'd thought to bring along a Seraph, you could know that for a fact, but since you didn't, you just need to take my word for it."

"Would you rather I called in a Seraph to talk this over with you?"

Yes. _No._ That's the kind of terrible idea that makes my walking into this place look like the best plan I've ever come up with. "Do you really think that would make him any happier?"

"I thought," Tess said, "that you didn't care."

"I think it's none of your business." Which is as good as admission, and I'm not sure that there's any way around that. I could lie through my teeth, and do it well, but she could double-check this back with Penny easily enough anyway. With _any_ Seraph, and know what I meant.

It really isn't any of her business. I don't care what she thinks about any of this, except for what that means regarding my ability to get out of here safely. And, fine, yes, I _do_ care what Penny thinks, but I can't change anything that makes him upset, so he's just going to have to cope, and I'm not going to spend a lot of time worrying about it. There are more important things for me to deal with.

"He has been my friend for longer than you have been alive," Tess says, "so don't try to tell me, Destroyer, what is and isn't my business. If he hadn't made certain promises--"

"Then you and his other friends would drag me away and try to staple me down in a Tether until the matter was resolved in some sort of grand scorching finale, one way or another," I say. I am not sure I am smiling so much as baring my teeth. "Yes. I remember, from last time. I maintain that this is none of your business. I haven't come back to your door to bother you, and I did not ask for _anything_ from you. I kept what trouble followed me as far away from your place as I could, and I dealt with it separately. I don't owe you anything. If you're upset because Penny is upset, that is not my problem."

"It's--"

"No. It's not. You can talk to him about it. And if he wants me to behave otherwise, he can _find_ a way to contact me about it. He has before. But for now? If he's leaving me be to make my own decisions, and you consider yourself his friend, you can damn well respect his decision and leave me _be_. I am not here to bother you. Give me the same fucking level of respect. If you want me to stay out of this entire neighborhood, maybe you should have posted some signs."

She sits back, and actually doesn't pick up the line of questioning. She leaves it _be_ , though I don't think it's because of my brilliant line of argument, and eats her soup, while I eat mine.

It is pretty good. Almost makes up for the coffee.

"I would rather you either come to us to talk, or stay away from the place," she says, after the last spoonful. "Does that seem reasonable to you?"

"Sure. Fair enough. I think I'm going for option two, if it's all the same to you."

"It's not," she says, "but I'll take it, if you swear that you're not here to act against us."

"We work for opposite sides. Everything I do is against everything you do, in some grander sense." I push my bowl away, mostly tidied up. "But I promise that I am not here to hassle your Tether, your Word, your coworkers, or anything else in this marketplace, so far as I'm aware. No promises about what happens if I get orders otherwise, because those do come first. Good enough for you?"

"Yes," she says. "I think that'll do." She offers a credit card and a tight smile to the waiter who stops at the table. Once he's moved on, her attention snaps right back onto me. "Is there any message you'd like to pass along? Perhaps for the sheer novelty of communicating with him while not in the middle of a crisis."

"Sure." I push my chair out, and turn as I stand so that I can see the door and don't have to look at her anymore. "Tell him I'm doing fine and he should stop worrying."

If she's following me, or if there's a Kyrio tracking me, I can't tell. Never been as good as Zhune at watching for shadowers, and what would be the point? I'm not trying to hide, not here and now. I'm trying to think, which I can do just as well observed as not.

There's a store not far from the cafe with racks and bins of cheap toys. Dozens of different wind-up plastic figures that chatter and spin and drive and clap, like some sort of Seussian nightmare for a Christmas morning. I pick through them, wind up one after another to lay out on the demo table, while some ancient clerk stares at her smartphone and largely ignores me. No one cares if I swipe fifty-cent bits of plastic, anyway, including me.

Katherine must be too old for this kind of junk by now. Even if I knew where to find her, which I do not, and that's for the best all around. And when she was younger, the target market for novelty toys with two minutes tops of amusement value, she would've taken the toys apart after two winds to see how they worked.

Maybe I should've shown her how to put these kinds of things back together. That would probably have been more useful to wherever she is now. Angelic foster parents have to be better for her than demonic ones, especially demonic ones with no damn parenting experience like me--I was barely even _older_ than her, for god's sake, what kind of guardian was I?--but if I'd known where she would end up, I could've prepped her better. All the education I gave her was for dealing with demons who'd want to use her and abuse her. Defensive moves. Nothing...proactive.

I hope she's not miserable, wherever she is. She was more or less happy at the Flowers Tether, so I know Heaven has places where she could be okay. It's not all boot camp and rulebooks. And if Judgment keeps her away from the bloodier Words like War and Stone and the Sword, she'll probably live a lot longer with them than she would've with me.

Never could figure out why anyone would become Hellsworn. It's such a terrible bargain. A handful of benefits and a mountain of risk. Don't humans have enough to deal with in the mundane world without joining up with an ancient war full of people more powerful and vicious than they are?

But then, people make a lot of decisions that I don't understand. No reason to think about that one.

Julie catches up with me fast enough that I suspect she finished her appointment a while back, and has been looking for me since. She's not trying for much stealth, so I notice her approach before she becomes the second person of the morning to tap me on the shoulder.

"Ready to go?"

"Like you would not believe." I set down a pair of chattering, walking teeth--I guess the classics never get old--and make it to the door before she does. "Back to the car?"

"There's another hour and change on the parking, but we _can_ go if you want, Lee." She loops her arm around mine, hand clasped to hand, and I let her. If anyone's watching me, it's far too late to cover up who I came here with. (For all I know, Tess spotted us on the way in.) "Bored already?"

"I'm not into shopping."

And I could leave it at that. This is what I should've been thinking about in that stupid toy store, and what I did not want to think about, and what I need to consider now, as we stroll back towards the parking garage. At what point does the risk of running into someone I know here in Seattle--that they know I am here, and what I look like, and who I'm walking around with--become risk to the job? Or enough of a risk that I should tell them about it.

If this were a job I'd been hired to do--

But it is. I mean. It _is_. Even if it feels like being handed around between Zhune and the Marquis, like they're treating me as a tool to be rented out, these people _claim_ that I have been hired for this job. As clear-cut an arrangement as any that Zhune picks up for the both of us.

If this were a job Zhune and I were working on, and I ran into Tess, I would tell Zhune. Not all the details of why I know or her or what we talked about, but that someone who can identify me had spotted me, tracked me down, could be watching me still. Which means that if I'm any sort of professional, I _ought_ to tell Julie about this. If nothing else, she needs to recalibrate on how safe she finds this place for meetings.

Professionalism and paranoia are fighting it out in my head. By the time we get into the car, they're still at it, which means I have to just _decide_ and stop thinking about it.

"I ran into someone I know back there," I tell Julie, while she's reaching for the ignition. "Didn't want to mention it until we were somewhere without listeners."

She pauses, key between her fingers. "What kind of someone?"

"Trader. She wanted to make sure I wasn't there for a Tether job, and I spent some time trying to be very convincing on this point. If for some reason the rest of you _do_ have designs on that place, don't tell me, because at this point I can still swear up and down with a Seraph listening in that I'm not touching it."

What she says is probably a curse word, but they haven't covered those in the language lessons yet. It's brief and heartfelt, regardless. "You were talking to a Trade Seraph?"

"No, and thank--goodness for _that_. Just... I don't know. I don't know what Choir she is, but she's probably not a Seraph. I've only met her the once before, on some hideous mess of a job that I'm not allowed to talk about." And I'm not saying _I told you so,_ no matter how hard I'm thinking it. "So let's just not visit there again, okay? Because I don't know if she'll be so polite if I show up in the same place a second time in a week."

Julie passes me the keys, and climbs over the gear shift into the seat with me. "Scoot over. You're driving. I need to talk to the boss about this."

"What?"

"Drive," she says, patient and sweet as always. "Go ahead, Lee. It's a lot easier to Sing if I'm not driving at the same time, and--actually, drive somewhere else first, it doesn't much matter where. I need to check in and find out if we can head straight back, or act like there's someone on our tail. You're sure she's not following you?"

"Personally? Yes. By proxy? No, of course not, how _could_ I be sure? Especially with a Kyrio on staff." I pull myself into the driver's seat, and get the engine started. A leisurely drive around while we figure out if we're being tailed, I can do. "If she believed me, I don't think she has a lot of reason to follow. If she didn't... Well, she did let me go."

"You never can tell with Trade. Sneaky bastards." Julie drags her fingers through her hair, and closes her eyes. "Don't worry. We'll get this taken care of."

"I don't think there's any need to bother--"

"Lee, really, don't _worry_ ," Julie says. "She'll figure out what to do, and it'll be fine!"

Which is missing the point, because I'm a lot less happy with talking to the Marquis about this incident than I am about it happening in the first place.

Too late to change my mind. Fucking professionalism. I should've gone with paranoia.


	23. An Interlude, In Which The Marquis Handles Matters

Many years ago, when Daosheng had received her Word, they had talked about the way this changed her perception of matters. The Word filtered every concept through a distorting lens, blocking out what had no bearing at all its nature, amplifying what seemed most relevant. It was like having a diligent, ruthless secretary sorting through all information before the paperwork arrived on her desk.

Thus, when Chaixin received the message from Yuliang, she had to pause and concentrate to listen to it properly. The Word said _This has nothing to do with our project here,_ and this was true, but that did not make it irrelevant. Merely lower priority.

Low priority information could still kill a person.

But then, what couldn't?

With modern communication methods, delegation was simple. It was a matter of a few minutes--most of it used in explaining to Guo who to call and what to say--to arrange for cars to be exchanged in a discreet area, and then she could return to the interrupted flow of more important work.

The Word had sharp teeth that always bit deep into her mind. But there was still enough space left in the back of her thought processes to weigh risks and benefits, revenge and potential, while she waited for her employees to come see her. 

When the feed from the hallway camera, a tiny box in the corner of one monitor, showed their approach, she sat back and redirected her thoughts. The Word could hiss its constant demands in a secondary channel for a quarter of an hour before it became insistent again.

The Word wanted to be her life and soul and breath. Daosheng had never let it take over to that extent, and Chaixin would not do harm to that memory by giving in to what her partner had been able to keep under control. Whatever the Word wanted, the company came first. Even if it existed to serve her and her needs and the Word that she breathed.

Yuliang entered the room first, the contractor two steps behind her. This was as it should be. An employee who shoved other people in front as soon as disapproval was likely to be handed out was no one she wanted in her service. Chaixin waiting for them to close the door and stand in front of her desk, watching them through monitors instead of looking at them directly.

The Impudite would know better, of course, but the other Calabite did not, and there was that change in the child's posture and expression every time Chaixin looked at her directly. So Chaixin took the opportunity to study her without looking as if that were being done. She knew the type: white-knuckled and standing up straight, braced for incoming pain.

When she looked up from the monitors to the actual faces of the two before her, the Calabite wore a perfectly neutral expression that offered neither apology nor defiance. A blank paper ready to rewrite itself based on the perceived desires of the authority figure before it.

People ought to know better. Punish the young for telling the truth of their mistakes, and they learn only to cover up their errors better. Useless.

"What happened?" she asked Yuliang. In Helltongue, so that the younger one might follow along and learn. Perhaps the Calabite would have been inspired to give her a more complete set of truth if she had asked in the tongue only two of them knew, being thus left ignorant of what Yuliang passed on.

Chaixin was more interested in how the Calabite would answer afterward, and what the Calabite might learn, than in acquiring the full truth from her.

"We went to the market for the hand-off," Yuliang said, "and I left Leo alone to do that, so she could be hidden backup. Then some Trade angel who's seen her in this vessel before showed up as soon as I left, to ask questions about what she was up to. She said it wasn't anything about the Tether, the angel backed off, and she told me when we met up again. That's when I called you."

There was something left out in that story. One could not know a person--one could not _rebuild_ a person, and then know the resulting person for two centuries, without learning to pick up on such details. Chaixin allowed herself a moment to wonder if it was one of those small flaws Yuliang tried to conceal out of vanity, and was usually allowed to keep hidden, or a detail which she thought it best not to speak in front of contractors.

"Do you have anything to add?" she asked the Calabite.

Leo hesitated, with that moment of thought on her face--she was skilled at concealing these things, but not so much that Chaixin could not see through it--in which she considered what to offer. It was a decision built entirely on fear, risk of punishment for what she might say or what she might not say, and oh, that made Chaixin tired. (So many things made her tired these days.) Training demons to fear their betters was simple. Training them to trust took months of steady work, years for some, and she did not have the resources to spare such that she could complete the process in a few weeks with this one.

"No," said the Calabite, "that's what happened."

"Did you know an angel who might recognize you was in the city?"

"Not specifically." The hesitation after this statement was tiny, another one of those calculations hidden inside it. "We do Tether jobs. I run into a lot of angels who might be able to identify me afterward."

"Did you not feel this was worth mentioning, when approaching an angelic Tether?"

She would not have asked that question of an employee. She would have pointed out their error, assigned correction where it was needed. There was no opportunity to fix these mistakes, to keep them from happening again, if her people were afraid to tell her about them. But the Calabite was afraid of her regardless, and she wanted to see what answer that would get.

"She did mention it," Yuliang said. And _there_ was what had not been said earlier. "She told me that she'd run into Traders before, and shouldn't come along, but--I didn't think there was any real chance of it being a problem. There are so many of them in this country, and she hadn't seen any of them here before, so how could I know?"

Chaixin held up a hand, and her Impudite fell silent. "Are the angels equally familiar with your other vessel?" she asked Leo.

"No. None of them should know it."

"Switch to that one. Don't take the other out in public for the duration of your time in the city. They won't think it unusual for one of our kind to vanish from the city after that conversation."

Leo's jaw went tight. As if she wished to argue on this point, when she had accepted all other direct commands immediately and without complaint. But she dipped her head, and with the hiss of local disturbance, switched from one vessel to another.

Having a proper record of both appearances would be useful. No doubt that was why the child had resisted to showing off the second vessel for so long. It seemed acceptable in form, and less likely to draw attention, especially in a city like this. Pale young men of mongrel European heritage passed without comment or notice on the streets of Seattle.

Chaixin switched to her preferred language when she turned to Yuliang. "She finally speaks up to give you a warning, and you ignore it? What were you thinking?"

"I thought she was just being nervous. She's nervous about everything, more than she needs to be! How could I know this one time it would be a valid concern?"

"When it comes to dealing with the enemy," Chaixin said, "nervous is better than careless. Doubly so when risking someone under your command, and not merely yourself."

"I'll do better," Yuliang said. She had too much control for her voice to be anything but steady, especially in front of this listener who had nothing but tone and expression to consider, but her fingers curled up into her palms. "I didn't realize-- I mean. I will do better next time."

"I expect so," Chaixin said. "You have two hundred years of experience on her, but her file says she's still dealt with far more angels than you have. When she gives you a warning on that topic, listen."

She turned back to her monitors. The Word wanted her attention, and her employees could follow that course correction for some time before they would need her direct management again. In the grand scheme of things, the error made by one of her favorite Impudites hardly mattered at all.

Daosheng would have handled it better.

There was no time to consider that. Word and work called for her, and to put them off any longer would be a true error.


	24. An Interlude, In Which I Am Not Forgotten

Penny’s phone rang while he was deep in the midst of contract review. Not even ordinary mortal loan applications, but a template for a finicky, delicate agreement between a particular unnamed party (he had his suspicions about their Word) and a second unnamed party (which he could identify with complete certainty as someone from Freedom), which required all of his attention. The number was on his contact list, and not anyone who would need his urgent help. He let the call go to voicemail, and kept to his focus.

This was not the sort of contract where one poorly worded loophole would lead to disaster. But it was poor form to not do one’s best on any assignment, and the wrong loophole could certainly lead to awkwardness and embarrassment. There were times when he suspected that these matters--the impression one gave to other people--could be nearly as important as those life-and-death matters that so occupied the thoughts of certain Words. The war between Heaven and Hell was a fight of propaganda and attrition, negotiation and murder, and it would not be won by destruction alone. Not if it was to be won in a manner that represented Heaven, rather than some amoral, abstract dedication to arbitrary sides and victory at any cost. At which point one might as well turn to the Game and be done with it.

His thoughts had been more occupied with these things of late than was entirely typical for him. And he knew exactly why.

Something over an hour later, he finished the contract, and sent it off to the Seneschal for final review and approval. Then it was time to stand and stretch, trying to work the sore spots out of this human-shaped vessel. He didn’t find it so awkward as some Seraphim claimed, despite the way limbs complicated all movement. Several hundred years of experience should be enough for anyone to learn how to deal with another body. But it still disliked the way he preferred to curl up over paperwork, and made this displeasure known in the nape of his neck and the edges of his shoulderblades.

A good walk and large cup of coffee usually took care of the problem. Both of which were on his mind when he opened the door to the office that was almost his by habit in the Tether, and found an old friend leaning against the opposite wall. She tapped off her phone and straightened. “Are you done with work?”

“For the moment,” he said. “I didn’t hear you come down to the Tether.”

“Because I didn’t call until I was already in the city,” Tess said. “This wasn’t so urgent I was about to hop another Tether for it when I had already meant to drive this way. How are you?”

That was always an interesting question from an Elohite. It meant something different from his counselor than from a friend, and perhaps it was mostly there to see what his reaction would be when he considered the question. “Overall, fairly well,” he said. “Though largely unchanged from the last time we spoke. At the moment I feel like I’m doing well at my job. You?”

“Oh, I could just punch someone,” she said, which was true. “A pity that it’s not the most useful thing for me to do. Can we talk? I’ll bring the coffee and the news that isn’t likely to make you happier, though for once I don’t think it’ll make you unhappier either.”

“A touch ominous,” Penny murmured, and was rewarded with a wry smile as he accompanied her to the second employee break room. The one on the third floor was unpopular among the human employees of the building, for having poor lighting and older furniture. This made it an excellent place for the inhuman employees to talk. (He was not, strictly speaking, on the payroll; his compensation was handled through the funds set aside for all manner of uses not appropriate to report in detail on the taxes.) He stretched his hands up, fingertips nearly brushing the ceiling, while his friend put together two cups of coffee.

Once he had asked her if she took her coffee with cream and no sugar because it was optimal, or because she liked it that way. She had told him that he shouldn’t set up false binaries, and that had been a useful revelation right there. And perhaps that was reason enough for her to take her coffee that way.

“You might as well sit down and not spill anything,” she told him, on passing the cup over.

“You’re not being very reassuring,” he said, and took a seat on a battered couch whose residence in the building predated its nature as a Tether. “What’s this about?”

She sat on the edge of the table to face him, and took a sip of her coffee before answering. “I ran into your favorite Calabite. --no, sit down, it’s not urgent. I would’ve told you if it were.”

“True,” Penny murmured, mostly to settle his own nerves. There was seldom reason for an Elohite to lie to a Seraph. “What happened?”

“I found her skulking around the Seattle Tether,” Tess said. “I pinned her down in a cafe for fifteen minutes of conversation.” She kept eye contact, because she had no reason to be ashamed of anything she said or did. That was the beauty and terror of the Powers. “She was scared, but I couldn’t untangle that very well. My presence has the unfortunate effect of producing that emotion even if it would be there already for other reasons.”

“And?” Penny wrapped his hands around the coffee cup, fingers laid over fingers. At times on the corporeal he wished for the simplicity of his true form. Not so perfectly singular as Ofanim, but still freer of all these small pieces that made him want to fidget and fuss with items when he was...stressed, perhaps. That was the word for it.

“Patience, Most Holy,” Tess said, with a wry smile. “I’m getting there.”

Truth, and truth told to reassure a friend, who would in turn appreciate the truth... What the Symphony told him about what was spoken to him by people who knew he was a Seraph could twist into circles at times. He spread his hands, and waited. Patiently.

“I would’ve liked to bring her home for you,” Tess said. “But that doesn’t seem likely to happen any time soon. She told me to stop interfering in your business, and--oh, how did she put it? That you knew how to contact her if it was important, and that if you were leaving her to make her own decisions, your friends ought to respect that decision of yours.” She gave him a wry smile. “I should’ve thought to record the conversation. There was no discreet way to do so by the time I thought of it.”

“I wish you had,” Penny said, secure in the knowledge that she would not read any reproach in what was simply a statement of opinion. Wishing for what might have been or could have been and was not...did not help much in the long run, perhaps, but he found it a necessary component of keeping up morale. Such as it was. Even if a certain Mercurian of War had accused him of excessive optimism, as if this were a sin.

“Well, you and me both. But I thought you should hear about it in person, since you insist on tying yourself into knots over the--over that person.” She closed her eyes halfway, the sign of pulling at memory. Even Elohim had their quirks of body language, where it would be less than optimal to try to train themselves out of such signs without good reason. “She swore that she wasn’t there to harass Trade, which seemed likely true--though I would have liked to know why she came so close to a Tether, in that case--and said, ‘Tell him I’m doing fine and he should stop worrying.’”

That was the truth, in that it was exactly what the Calabite had said. And he could see nothing further than that in the statement, not even whether or not Leo had meant it honestly. The Symphony was silent on matters so far removed from the discussion at hand.

“I think that’s unlikely,” Penny said, at last.

“That she’s fine, or that you’ll stop worrying?”

“Yes,” he said. And when an Elohite offered a hug, it was surely optimal to receive it.


	25. In Which No One Gets Hurt

"I told you," Julie says, "that she'd take care of it." Her voice is bright and sharp in the hallway. Whatever the Marquis said to her, it hasn't made her happier. Quite likely if I knew, it wouldn't make me happier either, because if it were anything that wasn't bad for me, they would have let me hear that part.

I thought the worst of this would be walking into that office and explaining what happened. But now it's been deferred indefinitely, and I don't know what the response will be, or when. If I thought that I could actually get any distance, in just running away--

But I tried that once and it didn't end well, and I know better than that now anyway. Running away only works with people who don't know you.

Julie's waiting for me to say something, and what am I supposed to say to _that_? Nothing meaningful. "Sure," I say, and wish I had a jacket. Haven't any such thing on this vessel right now. That's one more reason not to run screaming (well, in my head) into the bright blue day, because it's cold out there.

"Really," she says. "Nothing more to worry about." She kisses me on the cheek, and now she has to raise up on her toes to do that. "Relax. Not quite the day out we'd planned, but at least we weren't bored."

The door's unlocked, for once, and I follow her into the apartment. Everything looks slightly different, from the change in height. It'll take me a minute or three to adjust to that. And everyone's home, which saves time on explanations. Of the other demons in the room, Guo's the one who looks most startled out of all of them. Trey and Zabina need a split second each to process the vessel change before they figure it out, and the Shedite...just isn't the smartest person in the room. He's got an intense stare for me, trying to work out who Julie has decided to bring home and what he should do about it, instead of his usual wariness.

I flash him a quick, sharp smile. And he still doesn't get it. Why did they pick him up in the first place? It's not so hard to find Shedim in Stygia, of all places, that they should need to hire one who's a Force short of the standard minimum and shows it.

"Not shopping, then," Zabina says, having given me and my current vessel due consideration. Or more likely she's paying attention to what I'm wearing, which I think she'd find acceptable. The shirt has buttons on it; that has to count for something. "You're back early."

"Something came up," Julie says lightly. She's not fooling anyone. (Guo maybe aside.)

"Clearly." Zabina leaves the single word there between the two of them. I leave them to it, and pick up my laptop from where I left it at the coffee table. Maybe they can discuss matters and I can get work done and--then other things happen, I don't know what, thinking about it won't help.

"I know you prefer it when everything goes _per_ fectly, Zee," Julie says, "but once in a while that's not how it works! And then we all learn how to cope." She sits down at the table, and pulls off one of her boots. "Coping is a good skill to learn."

"I prefer to learn recovery from disaster by example," Zabina says, "rather than experience."

"Disaster? Kinda a strong word, Zee." I can practically hear Julie rolling her eyes. "Don't you have work to do?"

"Plenty," Zabina says. I try to focus on the words on my laptop screen, instead of the conversation to my left or the way Guo's expression says he's _finally_ catching on, or the silent presence of Trey and his tablet off on my right. "Though I may need to do more work if sending people out in pairs is no longer sufficient to maintain project security."

No, focus isn't happening right now.

"The _project_ is just fine, Zee. One bitty coincidence, and you treat it like thugs are breaking down the door."

"I am quite aware of the difference," Zabina says. The sound of her typing has stopped. "As no one has lost a vessel, Chaixin has clearly taken care of your mistake. How lucky we are that it was that easy to fix."

Julie's next response is not in English. Guo hunches down where he sits, and has no one _ever_ taught him how to sit up straight? I had that down before I was three hours old.

Trey drops his tablet, and stands. "Let's see if any of my pants fit you," he tells me, with a quick smile that is exactly as authentic as Julie's in the hallway, "or we'll lose the afternoon to another round of shopping."

Zabina says something sweet and razor-edged, I can tell that much just from tone, in the same language as Julie. "Let's," I tell Trey, and follow him into the room. Which leaves Guo out there with those two, but I think he'll cope. No one's angry at _him_.

Trey closes the door behind us, and leans against it. As if an angry pair of demons might in fact break down the door, otherwise, and there's tension all through his shoulders, though he's better at hiding it than some people. "You okay?"

"I'm fine." And I don't know if the question is a trap, or pro forma, or sincere. Might as well go with the default answer that's least likely to get me into trouble.

"If you say so." He's by the door, I'm already backed up to the opposite wall, and I don't know why we're standing like this. When I'd rather it be otherwise. "If you'd like to borrow any of my clothes, go for it. They won't fit perfectly on that vessel, but it's close enough until we can get you your own. And--" He shrugs one shoulder, almost a pointer towards the door behind him. "We can wait out the argument here. They'll move to their room eventually."

"Who's winning?"

"Zabina," he says without hesitation. "It's the first time all project that Julie fucked up this badly."

And if she's being held sufficiently responsible for her rival to see a chance to savage her, what are they going to do to me? Hell and _damnation_ , I told her, and--maybe it is my own damn fault, for not insisting. Or for being the kind of idiot who has conversations with angels, in the past and in the present, when no other demons seem to get into these sorts of traps.

"Well, good luck to her," I say, and sit down on the floor beside a heap of dirty laundry waiting to be taken to the dry cleaner. Blouses for my other vessel, some odd bits and pieces from Guo's hosts, one of Trey's jackets. "Do you think she'll win what they're fighting over?"

"She has a better chance of it now." Trey watches me from where he stands, and--oh. Yes. He's being _careful_ , because I'm the unpredictable element here. The one known for calling down the Game on someone, setting buildings on fire while I'm in them... Ha. I'm the crazy one, around here.

So he pulled me away from the current source of stress, made sure I wasn't near the fragile kid, blocked the exit, and then kept a safe distance--not that safe, if I really was trying to raise a fuss--while trying to work out how upset I am and if he could calm me down. It's...odd. I'm being managed. I probably ought to be insulted, but it's sort of nice to be taken seriously for once. No one ever takes me seriously as a threat when Zhune's around. Just as someone unreliable enough to be a problem or an annoyance, and then they expect Zhune to handle me anyway.

"Look," I say, "it's been an awkward morning, but I'm not about to explode over it. Do what Julie keeps telling me to, and relax a little."

"If you say so." He crosses the room to sit on the edge of the bed, looking down at me. Can't take any offense at that when I'm the one who chose the floor. "Awkward, huh?"

"Yeah. Conversations with angels usually are. But no one broke my legs or cut my throat, so as these things go, it went pretty well. The only reason to--" Well, the only reason to worry is based on what other people might do to me because I fucked up, and by "other people" I pretty much mean the Marquis. But that's not the sort of thing I should say to him. "Anyway, I'll cope. Is there going to be another mandatory shopping trip? Can't be half as bad as the last one."

"At least one," Trey says. "When they're done with the current argument, they'll start debating how you should dress."

I spread my hands out. "Is sticking with this an option? I am capable of dressing myself. Really."

"It's a bit...downscale," Trey says, which is a polite way of explaining that I'm not allowed to look like I buy my clothes at Target (which I did) while hanging out with these people. "And you'd need more outfits anyway. If you have any strong opinions on men's fashion, we can try to cut them off at the pass."

"Not really. Nothing that's hard to move in, I guess." Because if the next time I walk into an angel it's _Sean_ , I want to be able to run for cover. (And wouldn't it be delightful if he came looking for me, and met the Marquis? That wouldn't end well, that would end so badly if I bothered her that much, but what a satisfying image.) "How much do I have to fear if I let them handle it?"

"A tug-of-war with you in the middle. But only if neither of them wins the argument they're having out there."

We shut up for a moment to listen. They're not shouting--I doubt Zabina has ever raised her voice in her life, except for calculated effect in an emergency--but I don't think anyone could mistake that discussion for a friendly one.

"Current topic?"

"You," Trey says.

"Actually me, or me as proxy for the issues they already have with each other?"

"The latter." He hooks an ankle over one knee, hands over his calf. One of those defensive gestures that tries not to look like it is. "Mind if I ask a question?"

With most demons I've met over the last few years, this would be about the moment when everything goes south. The prelude to a fist fight or a nastier verbal one, where we're both on edge and someone's got to go assert dominance to settle the matter. That's what happens when Zhune leaves me alone with other Magpies for a few hours to go do--whatever it is he gets up to when he disappears like that. (Whatever he does, it's not my business. He doesn't push too hard when I lie to him about what I get up to alone.) And I am not in the mood for a fight right.

But neither do I see a graceful exit to that setup, and there is always the faint chance that the hundredth time is the charm. "Might as well ask, Trey."

"What are you afraid of? Here and now." He drags his pack of cigarettes out of a pocket, and lights one up, never mind that we're inside with the windows closed. "Because you're so on edge that the kid's picking up on it. He was about ready to start apologizing at you just in case it'd keep him from getting bit. Now, I don't think you're the type to harass him. The demons who want to kick around the little ones on principle make that obvious pretty fast. But you're on edge about something, and it is, more or less, my job to make sure this particular work group keeps on working amiably. Despite us all living in each other's pockets for longer than any Thief should be forced to." He leans forward to offer me his cigarette. "So, what is it?"

I take the cigarette from him, and spin it between my fingers. Zabina will not approve. Both of us will somehow cope with this disapproval. "Talking with angels makes me twitchy." Enough truth in that to suffice as an answer, I expect.

"That'll do it to anyone." He takes the cigarette back when I hold it up for him, and has a drag, breathes out a thin stream of smoke. "Someone you have history with?"

"Not much. This makes the second awkward conversation we've had, and both times she threatened to break my kneecaps." I slide down against the wall, tilting back my head until I can stare at the ceiling. For all the time spent on decorating walls and floors, not many places do a damn thing worth looking at with the ceiling. "She never followed through with it, though, which practically makes it a warm and friendly relationship, as these things go."

"When did you run into her before?"

"During some job that I probably shouldn't talk about." I hold out a hand, and the cigarette ends up in there. We're not arguing about anything. Probably I should credit Trey for that. Impudites know how to be sociable, given a reason, and someone gave him a reason. That must be the strangest job in the world. Not just playing nice, but making sure everyone else does too. "That one didn't go too badly. I mean, my partner lost a vessel, but that was sort of a side thing. Came out well overall. Most of our jobs do." I watch the embers eat away at the paper for a moment, then hand the cigarette back to him. "Your job doesn't run you into angels all that often, does it?"

"Almost never." He's using the cigarette as an excuse to pause and set words in order as much as I am, which I cannot object to. (I can wish for the days when I was such a mouthy bastard that I didn't spend much time stopping to think about what I was going to say, but I guess we all grow up eventually.) "There was this one time I ended up on a date with a...Swordie, probably, never did find out for sure, but she didn't know what I was, and we got that untangled. Carefully."

"What Choir?"

"Not a Seraph, I assume, or it would have been more trouble." He cup his hand beneath the cigarette to flick ash into his palm. "Probably not a Kyrio, and all the others are hard to tell apart. Most of them want to get violent about meeting any of us. Even the Mercurians, for fuck's sake. Apparently the non-violence thing only holds for humans. And...I don't know, other angels? Can a Mercurian get violent with another angel?"

Well, it wasn't Sean who shot that one Destiny Servitor in the head, but I could picture him doing that if it seemed necessary. "No idea. But I'm sure Judge Mercurians can. The Judges can get away with nearly anything. They turn off Choir dissonance for things that might get in the way of being assholes to other people."

"You'd think they'd stick to bothering their own side," Trey says. When he passes the cigarette to me this time, his fingers slide along mine. Not long enough to feel like an imposition, but it was...deliberate, I think, because he is an Impudite the way Julie is, and the way Zabina is a Lilim, in that everything they do is deliberate when it comes to social interactions. He's not as pushy as Julie. Doesn't make him less careful in pursuing what he wants in a conversation.

And I don't exactly know what he wants, though I can guess at what he's deliberately implying he wants, and, hell, this is why I prefer jobs where I only talk to humans and mostly just jimmy a third-story window open, instead of trying to second-guess my own conclusions about what someone who knows about me wants me to know.

A door slams. Not the front door, but it made me twitch anyway.

"I think," Trey says delicately, "that they're continuing the argument elsewhere."

"In bed?"

"I believe that's the tradition." He takes the cigarette back from me, and then offers his other hand to help me up. "If you'd like, we can skip out for clothes shopping before they're done. Guo can watch the place."

"With six Forces, honestly, what can he _do_ if something happens?" I take the hand up. Won't turn down from him what I've been willing to accept from Sean, though honestly I do that with the Mercurian just to mess with his head.

"Call the boss," Trey says. "If serious trouble shows up at the door, that's what any of us would do. Julie's the only one who could do much more. And maybe you."

"I'm not that much of a bruiser." I try to brush my pants back into something wrinkle-free, and give up almost immediately. No one who cares is in the main room right now. "I'm better at playing support for someone who can take a few bullets."

"Yeah, we try to avoid that," Trey says. "Shopping?"

"Is there any way I can escape buying clothes today?"

"Sure," he says. "We could practice our shoplifting skills."

#

We just use his expense account instead. And talk about nothing, nothing important at all, nothing that would even make the humans around us blink. Restaurants in Seattle and traffic patterns in Korea, fabric and fashion and what sorts of clothes are actually comfortable to move in instead of just looking like they are.

We don't talk about angels or incipient doom or demonic hierarchy. And we spend half an hour trying to track down a particular beer Ash sent me a picture of before we give up and buy whatever catches our fancy instead, at a beer store that doesn't have as good of a selection as it thinks, and it's fine. More or less.

I mean, it's not fine. This whole job is fucked up and messing with my head. But I can pretend it's fine for a while, and that's. I don't know. Nice.


	26. In Which I Postpone The Existential Crisis For A More Convenient Time

On Monday morning, shortly after the obligatory coffee run, I realize that I don't know who I'm trying to be.

It was easier in the other vessel. That one's not me. It's who Zhune wants me to be, the annoying attention-grabbing look that people prefer, and in some ways that's a benefit--much as I don't like it--because it means they're not really thinking about me. They're thinking about whatever meaning they attach to people who look like that. When Julie talked me into bed, which I cannot bring myself to regret, what she wanted was that girl with the red hair. Who I happened to be wearing.

And this vessel shouldn't feel much more like me. It's not what I look like in Hell. It's not what my first vessel looked like, or my second. I wear it once or twice a month, mostly to see Ash or make a point to Zhune. This is the one I kept hidden all this time until the Marquis made me swap, so that I'd have an option for running away and hiding if it really came down to that. There's no reason to feel more connected to it.

Except that I do care. This one feels right. It's like being in my own body, the right sizes and shapes--oh, I could wish to be taller or broader, but it's good enough, and it doesn't draw attention. I can put on the sorts of clothes that I actually like. And there's nothing wrong with that. Just a preference, like any other. Zhune and I can both have whatever preferences we like.

The difficulty being that suddenly people are reacting to this body while it feels like me, and that means they're...reacting to me. More or less. Not some image of a snotty teenage girl dressed all wrong for how she talks, but me as I am in this body. And I'm not sure how I want them to.

They give me more space in crowds. It's still tight in the coffee shop in the morning when I get the coffee, but I've got more elbow room and less expectation that I'll move out of the way of other people. On the walk back to the apartment, my balance is different walking uphill, and it's like I've gone invisible. People shift out of my way, but they don't _look_ at me the same way.

Vessels are like the ultimate expression of fashion. They do change how everyone reacts to you. And I never get to choose my own. (Maybe no one does. That'd be fair.) So for all that I let Trey dress me--he believes in jeans I can move in, button-down shirts, a gray peacoat that doesn't try to grab attention, and I can put up with men's good shoes instead of sneakers for all that--it's something I need to deal with. I've put on this face, willingly or not, and I need to decide how I want people to read it. Because it's going to feel every time like they're actually reading _me_.

"I could take a different host," Guo says, over his hot chocolate, "since now we _have_ a white guy." His eyes are fixed on Zabina while he says this, because for the moment she is the top demon in the apartment. If Julie pulls off some wild success and takes the lead in this race again, he'll stare at her instead. "Some woman? Maybe someone prettier."

"Your current host is fine," Zabina says. She's taking a rare moment of leisure away from her computer. (I suppose she could be frivoling away most of her time on it, too, and I wouldn't be able to tell, but it strikes me as unlikely.) "You need to hold down the older demographic. It implies more authority."

"Does that mean I--"

"No," Julie tells him nicely, and pats him on the head as she swans past, socks slipping around on the polished floor. Is Guo doing the mopping while other people are out or distracted? Someone must be. This place is staying clean, and I haven't been doing much more than dishes. "Though it's a good point, Lee. You could dress it up a little if you wanted. I can't believe you didn't pick up a single pair of skinny jeans while you were out."

"Somehow," I say, "it didn't come up." And if it had, I would have vetoed the idea. I don't have strong opinions on men's clothing, but Ash has the hipster thing covered for about a five-state radius. There is no need to put me into clothing like that too.

"Maybe the next time you're out." Julie is all expansive cheer this morning, as if there was no argument last night. "You wouldn't look bad in some brighter colors, either. Jewel tones, maybe. Or black! You'd look good in a really dramatic black. Something with a high collar..." She taps a finger to her lips, considering me. My vessel. Okay, _me_ , whichever. "How do you feel about silver? You've got that earring, but do you only like it on the other vessel? Because I totally get wanting to dress them differently, for more looks."

"Stop harassing the Calabite," Zabina says. She's finishing up something on her laptop; I can tell by the way her typing pattern changes.

"Like you're not dying for a chance to put him in pin-stripes and vests," Julie says. It's chirpy, but it doesn't have the edge of her usual attacks. Despite the image she's projecting, she's not back on an even keel from yesterday. She's going to need more time before she can perfect that cutting precision--not too obvious, but striking home--all over again. I suspect she used up a fair amount of her prepared ammunition in yesterday's argument.

"Men's fashion does not begin and end with skinny jeans," Zabina says. She snaps her laptop shut. "Even this decade."

"No, but a man ought to have _options_ ," Julie says. "Lee, want to pick up a few more things this morning? We can finally go to Uwajimaya. They have this amazing bookstore inside with all the import manga."

"I ought to focus on work," I say, focusing on the computer screen as if I'm terribly concerned with what's going on there. "I'm in the depths of trying to parse Canada's building codes to reference against some of those blueprints, and it's not going fast."

"Mmkay. Maybe another time. I'll head out myself, then. Shopping for dinner to do and all that." She doesn't even sound disappointed. I suspect she is. I'm not giving her the support she wants in this political contest, and I was supposed to be on her side by this point. Which...I'm not. Do I like her? For better or worse, yes, I suppose I do. But there's a great distance between that and getting involved in office politics among people I've known for a week. If I learned anything from my stint in Gehenna, it was that when it came to office politics, the newest guy is the fall guy.

"You may have to take the bus," Zabina says, as she stands. "I'm using the car."

"You can't just take the car every time you want it," Julie says, more sharply than I suspect she intended. "I need it too."

The Lilim looks over her shoulder at Julie. "Do you really?"

Julie's lips press thin. Then she says, "No, not really! Trey, come help me steal a car. It'll be fun."

"Give me a minute," he says, "and I'll be along." And I _know_ he's swamped with work, even more so after the time he spent out with me yesterday, but this is his work too. Keeping things running smoothly between people, which sometimes means talking down the twitchy Calabite, and sometimes means stealing cars with the Impudite who feels her place in the hierarchy is threatened.

He wouldn't have to put off his work again, and be all the more hammered by it, if I'd taken Julie up on her offer. Is that the sort of thing I care about? I mean, am I the sort of person who thinks far enough ahead to work out what decisions will rebound on other people, and then picks the decisions that will make people I like happier?

That has nothing to do with what vessel I'm wearing. But it still feels like something I didn't have to think about until I put on the one that's like me. Sometimes I think that the reading I did in college about the mind and body being entirely separate entities that don't much affect each other wasn't half as correct as it seemed to me at the time. Vessels are more than clothing, and even clothing still clearly affects how I act and feel and what I can do. They hook into my brain and wrap around me--my _brain_ , I say, like that's a thing, and not a vessel simulation of my celestial reality--and what must it be like to be a human, with only the one all along? Less confusing, in some ways, but it locks you in and it's such a complete and inescapable part of you. Can't even get away from it except in dreams, and most humans have no control over those.

Regardless, Zabina makes it out of the apartment without her keys being swiped, and Julie makes it out, presumably, without any new hooks set in her. And Trey goes with her, so that leaves me and Guo sharing the living room.

He tries to be very casual about moving to the far side of the dining room table. It's not. Especially since it leaves him hunched over a book he's read twice before in a dining room chair, shoulders poking up behind him like he's ready to spread wings and take flight.

And I thought _I_ had some self-image problems.

Half an hour of him huddling and me trying to type, and it's gotten on my last nerve. There's no knowing when any of the other three will be back, and I am _stuck_ with this kid. So I leave my cursor blinking at the end of a section, and stand up. "I'm going for a cigarette break. Want to come along?"

"I don't smoke," he mutters. And then, hastily, "Thank you. But no. Because I don't...uh. Smoke. Like I said."

"Suit yourself." I take myself to the fire escape--we got enough arch looks about the smoke in the other bedroom already--and burn through a cigarette there while I consider my options. There's no point in thinking too much about the long-term, because when this job is done I go back to my partner and my old life. ("Old," as if it's even so much as a decade spent at this Theft work. But by the span of my life, sure, old enough.) Short-term, well, I'm tired of thinking about impossible things like _who am I_ and _what do I want this people to see me as_ , because those questions just lead to headaches.

But I can think about the simple, basic stuff. How do I want this job to go? I'd like it to go well. If the Marquis is going to fuck me over, there's no way to stop that, but I don't intend to give her any further excuses. I'll get my Song out of Julie like instructed--right now, Celestial Motion sounds like a great plan--and do my work well. I will _get along_ with these people, so long as it doesn't require anything too horrible.

This is something I'm capable of. I've got plenty of flaws, but I've got some basic competence in social skills, given a running start at them. I'm good at this architecture thing, despite being out of practice. I can just do this.

All it requires is putting some fucking effort in, instead of huddling in a corner and letting things happen to me.

I toss the cigarette butt down to the ground without crushing it myself. The street's wet from last night's rain, and this afternoon's supposed to bring in sleet. It's a good thing I'm wearing a coat, and that Trey thought to pick one up for me despite the good weather yesterday. He's considerate like that. Or interested in keeping in my good graces for the time being.

I'm not sure the difference matters. I'm not sure the difference exists, among demons. Every demon I've ever fallen in love with, and I refuse to sit down and count that very small number precisely, has also been someone who was _useful_ to me. That's how it goes.

I suppose even Katherine was useful to me, now and again. But I'm not sure if I can call my attachment to her love. That was more like responsibility.

Funny to think that by now she must have her fifth Force, like any near-adult human. One less than Guo.

The Shedite's still at the table when I get back in. He's too conscientious to leave me unattended, as I'm still the contractor in need of babysitting, even if I outweigh him by four Forces and a hell of a lot of experience. I pull out a chair to sit across the table from him, and prop my elbows down. "How's the book?"

"It's fine," he says, head ducking down lower. Defensive posturing, introductory level. I've done the same myself in my team, but I learned better.

"What do you like about it?"

"I. Uh. The...things that happen?" He chews on his lip, a gesture that would look adorable if he wore a vessel like the one I don't have on right now, and which meshes terribly with the middle-aged host he has on. "There's this bit where everyone is out to kill this guy even though he didn't do anything wrong, but he got set up by these other people who really did it, and so he breaks into this woman's house and tells her that he's really innocent and she believes him so she helps him get past the checkpoint because she still has ID because they think that she's still on their side, even though she's not because she knows what they did now, and...I like that. Because he gets away and he should, and it works."

"May we all be so lucky." I shift the splay of my elbows on the table by a few centimeters, and watch how he reacts. "Guo, that's not working."

"What?"

"How you're sitting. It's not doing you any good. Not around people like these, and definitely not around humans. Maybe if you were wearing another host. Humans like it when women are small and nervous, or at least enough of them do that it's worth a try. But you're wearing middle-aged men who look like they work in offices with their own windows." I sit back in the chair, by way of demonstration. "When you hunch in like that, people don't think, oh, he's harmless, we should be nice. They think, wow, he's nervous, what does he have to be nervous about? Is that the impression you want to give?"

"I can't _help_ it," Guo says, a spark of anger in his voice at last. "When I--when I do what my hosts think is right, it's wrong for demons, but when I do my own thing, it's wrong for humans. What do you expect me to do?"

"Work out context and respond appropriately," I say, as nicely as I can without being condescending. He gets enough of that from everyone else. "You can project confidence and still acknowledge that other demons have more power than you do. What you want to do is come across like you know what you're doing, but you're open to instruction from your superiors."

"So, what? You think I should act like you?"

"Oh, fuck, no, kid." I probably shouldn't have called him that out loud, but he doesn't look any more hostile or defensive than he already was for the title. "And don't try to imitate Trey, either. He has this whole lounging thing down to a science, and you aren't picking the right kind of hosts for that. He's doing--sexy youth, if you have to put a title on it. When you're picking out middle-aged, especially middle-aged men, you have to _own_ that look. Walk around like you expect people to get out of your way, but not like you plan on running over them if they don't. Just like...it's natural that people would back off. Sit up straight. Putting your shoulders back consistently will get you halfway there." I wave to the head of the table, where Zabina's laptop is sitting. "If you need to find someone to imitate, sit up like Zabina does. She has perfect posture like some people would kill for." Or inflict a lot of pain to induce in someone else, but I don't think that's necessary here. Not my problem, if it's that important. I'm just giving out advice. "Take Zabina as your model for as much as you can, when it comes to how you sit and stand and walk. At worst, people will think you look...a little fussy or prissy, for a man. And that's good enough. Fussy, prissy middle-aged men can still ruin a person. You're wearing hosts that look like they could ruin someone. Wear them like that's true."

"I don't want to--upset people," Guo says, and stares at the table.

"Come on. Look me in the eye, and say that." I wait for him to drag his gaze up to something near what I asked for. "When you're dealing with demons, you're going to run into two kinds. The ones who aren't going to bother you unless you harass them first, and the ones who are waiting to jump on any hint of weakness. Your coworkers here seem to be the first type, so you don't have to cringe around them. The second type? Staring at the floor and mumbling will only make them worse. You have a _Marquis_ for a boss, Guo. You're not on your own. If you don't act like you're scared of them, other demons will assume you have some protection. Whether or not that's true, it's safer to act like it is."

"It is true," he insists, suddenly vehement. Enough to lean forward across the table. Still hunching, true, but he looks intent. "She'll protect me if anyone tries to jump me, I _know_ she will. She said so. She takes care of her people."

"Then you're doing her something of a disservice to be walking around like you expect no one will protect you, aren't you?"

Guo opens his mouth, and closes it again. "I'm not _trying_ to--"

"Oh, no no no. Guo. Don't talk about _trying_. No one cares about trying, except the person who's doing it. They care about what you _do_." I slouch back in the chair, and wonder why I'm trying this hard to get through his head, when surely Trey could do a better job of this. He'd _listen_ to Trey. But it feels weird to watch someone fail over and over again at the simple things that are _so easy_ to fix. Get those things taken care of, then worry about the other complexities of pretending to be human. "You can probably ask for help, too. Maybe from Zabina. She seems like she enjoys...fixing people. Trey and Julie might be too nice about it to be helpful right off, especially if you want to get better at this quickly." I wave a hand. "Assuming you want to get better. That's your business, not mine."

"If it's none of your business," he mutters, "why are you telling me?"

Because it would be nice to think it's possible to learn these things the easy way, and not the hard way. Because he reminds me oddly of Katherine. Because I needed a break from work. Because I'm trying to impress someone in this place, I'm not even sure who, with how I can be a useful team player. Fuck if I know. "Because if we're working together on this project, the more competent you are, the better support you'll be for _me_."

And that's selfish enough for him to understand, judging by his expression. Acceptance will take longer. "So, what, I'm supposed to just...sit up real straight all the time?"

"Watch Zabina. Watch other people on the street, the sorts of people you might jump to next. Look for humans who walk the way you associate with demons who are important. Not just dangerous, but _important_ , and who know it. Try to act more like them." I smile, wry and maybe more honest than I should be. "You can be whoever the hell you want inside your head, Guo. Or inside your host's head. But you've gotta project someone who does what you want, for other people to see."

"Is that what you do?"

He means it to be a challenge, and in some ways it is. But I have officially shelved that whole question for the day. "Sure," I say, "more or less. The more you get used to it, the less you need to worry about it. You're new to this. So you have to work harder. That's not fair, but that's how it is."

I leave the table. "You want another book, or are you happy rereading that one?"

"I like this one," he says.

So I do leave him to it, while I get back to work. I wasn't quite lying. I do need to research building codes in Canada to figure out the next section of this report.

But I make sure to leave some better books on the edge of the coffee table, in a stack of communal ones like that cat pictures book, so that if he wants to try something else, it's there. I can only do so much. Even if no one cares about that part, he has to _try_ if he's going to get any better.


	27. In Which All Gifts Are Fraught

Julie and Trey get back before Zabina, and Julie’s in what is, by my estimation, an honestly good mood. I think stealing cars made her happier. She’s one of those demons who’s as much the Word they serve as they are whatever their Band is, or more, the way Zhune’s far more Theft than he is Djinn. A Rite and some time out with a friendly coworker--and I know how friendly Trey can be, with people on edge--is exactly what she needed.

I suppose I’m glad that she’s in a better mood because it makes things easier for me. One less problem to distract me from work and be a source of worries. I’ve almost entirely concluded that if the Marquis hasn’t held the thing with Tess against me by now, she’s not going to. At this point if she does anything about that it’ll be an excuse. And she’s a Marquis. She doesn’t _need_ an excuse to fuck me over.

Trey’s carrying the mail, which comes in every few days. A handful of it gets shoved in a drawer. Whoever really owns this apartment will at least find, on their return (if they get to return), that we haven’t violated that particular federal law. So far. One letter with an honest to god handwritten address is laid down on Zabina’s laptop, which makes me _wonder_. Enough that I might try to take a peek if I thought I could get away with it. (Unlikely, between supervision and my shoddy skills at mail manipulation.) Julie gets a package, and then he takes the last brown box over to the couch near me. “Delivery,” he says, and tosses me the box.

I catch it with one hand, and weigh it there. Only a few pounds, and some of that is the box itself. “Pretty sure I’d remember ordering anything.”

“It’s an early Christmas present,” Trey says, light and easy in that way that gives me the option of pretending I don’t care in the slightest. “Ran across some stuff you might like.” And having delivered this level of introduction for what are apparently gifts, he collapses back on the couch with his tablet, immersing himself in the work that I know he’s behind on by now.

The return address isn’t from any company I recognize. It’d be easy enough to put this off until later, or pretend I never noticed, but...playing nice. Team player. (All those games that roles and Roles alike produce.) And I admit to being a little bit curious. Three to one it’s something work-related, as much a real present as the laptop or the clothing, but there is that one in four chance that it’s more like the shoes he brought me.

I run my fingers around the edges of the top side, and resonate the box open that way. Tidy packing material, boxes, receipt... By the time I’ve opened all the sub-boxes, I seem to have acquired an odd leather wallet with a tiny pen slotted into it, three leather watch-bands with a single face to swap between them, and...I’m not sure what. A bracelet, I suppose, except it’s just another loop with a heavy snapping carabiner-style clasp. Leather, naturally. So at least I’ve identified the theme of the place he bought these from, if not exactly why he got them for me.

“I was looking at wallets,” Trey says, as he’s no longer staring at his tablet--watching me do the unwrapping, I suppose--”and I saw they had one listed as an architect’s wallet. Comes with the notebook and pen built in, and I liked the design. Thought you might like it. Then I picked up the other stuff as long as I was there. That watch is supposed to be pretty sturdy, and it should last a while longer since you can swap the wristbands periodically.”

It is nothing like the expensive watches in gold and silver that Zhune likes to steal for me. I slide the watch onto one of the bands, and buckle it onto my left wrist. Enough notches that it might’ve fit my other vessel, too; Trey hadn’t seen this one when he ordered all these things. “Pity I don’t have any ID to go in the wallet.”

“None at all?”

“Never had a reason to pick any up for this vessel. I don’t use it very often.” And I can see that Julie’s paying keen attention to this conversation, despite her gaze being on her laptop screen. We must all use our computers as a way to pretend our attention is in one place or another, regardless of what we hear. A polite fiction for getting along in a space like this. “I’ll just have to remember not to break any traffic laws if I go driving in it, and avoid being pulled over.”

“We can get you an ID,” Trey says, getting to his feet. “Come into the bedroom, and I’ll get a picture of you up against that white wall.”

I leave my laptop, which was not inspiring anyway. I’m on a really boring section describing things like duct sizes and how far apart certain types of pipes are. Tedious but necessary. “Surely you can’t get an ID made in the apartment.”

“No,” Trey says, and holds the door open for me, “but we can send the picture to someone in Oregon who can overnight the new ID and you’ll have it tomorrow.” It’s almost like something of a ritual when he closes the door behind us, and we’re alone in the bedroom again.

Alone, but not exactly unobserved. These walls are only so thick. And much as we all know what’s going on when Zabina and Julie disappear into their bedroom to argue, I expect everyone else can guess what Trey and I get up to in here.

Unless they think we’re actually having sex, and would be disappointed to find out we just talk. By and large.

I stand against the appropriate wall, and try not to think about the security risks of having my picture taken. If it’s not safe with Theft and its allies--oh, who am I kidding? I lost all hope of keeping this vessel secure and unknown among demons when I wore it to a party thrown by a friend of Zhune’s, never mind that I didn’t have any other as an option at the time. Can’t hurt much more to show it off to Theft now. As is usually the case, any sort of safety I was getting out of keeping it hidden was an illusion.

(I’ve met a Balseraph who could talk about exactly what is and isn’t an illusion, but I think she’d agree that safety, in general, is.)

“Here,” Trey says, and hands me his phone. “Pick out whichever one you like best.”

I sit down on the bed and tap through the sequence of pictures. They’re all pretty much the same, and they’re all a bit strange. I don’t get a chance to see this face of mine from the outside very often. “If we’re putting it on a driver’s license, shouldn’t I be picking out whichever one I like least?”

“That would be traditional,” he says, and picks up the pair of jeans I was wearing on this vessel before the shopping trip. Cheap and starting to go white at the knees, but I kept them _clean_ , and I’d put those aside with the rest of the discarded clothing. For later. I’m not at the point that I’m willing to throw out those clothes, unlike what I was wearing on the other vessel. “Maybe pick the one where you look most like you’ve been standing in line for three hours before it was taken.”

“The third one’s not bad,” I say, and watch him go through the pockets of my old jeans. Which I do not like and there is _no_ good way for me to object. He’s just...being helpful. Pulling out what bits of cash I had squirreled away in there. A ticket stub from a movie Zhune and I saw. A diner napkin I kept because I liked the design I sketched out on it. Some loose change, and it is not my lucky day, because he picks out that one penny, and holds it up to take a closer look.

“What’s this?” he asks. Not accusatory. But it’s a valid question. Most Calabim do not walk around with one of those in their pocket. A stylized Seraph embossed on one side, and a spiky ring of fire on the other.

“Some artifact,” I say. “Just the corporeal type, so it doesn’t do anything.”

He holds it up to the light, and spins it between his fingers. “Strange. I can’t see why anyone would make an artifact out of that. It’s not useful for keeping track of, like knives and cars.” He lays it down with the rest of the change in a sprinkle of metal on the bedspread, and goes back to tucking my bits of paper neatly into the wallet that’s far too nice for any of them. “Where did you get it?”

There is no good way to answer that question. But there’s one plausible excuse for anything a Magpie is caught with. “Swiped it,” I say. “I told you that I ran into Trade before.”

“You’re not worried someone could track you with it?” He hands over the wallet, and sits down near me. That spray of change laying between us. “I suppose it’s not an issue if you don’t wear the vessel much.”

“Exactly. I suppose if anyone tried, early on, they probably gave up on it as destroyed long ago. No reason for them to keep checking.” I wonder if Penny even knows that I kept it, or if he assumes I destroyed it instead. Which would have been sensible.

But he seems like the sort of person who would keep checking.

“I wouldn’t risk it,” Trey says, and flashes a smile at me. “But there are a lot of things I wouldn’t risk that you do all the time. Any other Words on that side who might be holding a grudge?”

“It’d be easier to list the ones who _aren’t_.”

“Oh? Which ones aren’t, then? For reference.”

I have to sit and think about that one for a while. It depends on how loosely we’re defining grudges, and whether I’m counting everyone I’ve stolen from or only the ones who got a good look at my other vessel. “I don’t think I’ve ever run into Revelation.” Trey nods encouragingly, and I shrug at him. “That’s what comes to mind. And I haven’t done _much_ with Animals, but there was one really pissy wolf at a Creation Tether this one time that might’ve been from them, so who knows? Plus there are probably some minor Superiors I’m not familiar with.”

“Damn,” he says. And I don’t think he means that word quite the way I do when he says it. “Speaking of risks...” But he shakes his head, and doesn’t finish that sentence. “What name do you want on the ID when we order it for you?”

“I don’t think it matters, since it’s not attached to a Role.”

“You could be French,” he says. “I always liked French names.”

“The last two times I had an actual Role, I was just Leo something-or-other. Easy to remember, bad for security. Might as well go French. Why, does the vessel look it?”

He holds up a hand and wiggles it slightly. “Could be. Not distinctly so. You could ask Zabina, if you wanted a precise assessment. She can pick apart European ethnicities the way Julie can the Chinese ones. Before she joined Theft, she used to have these families she’d track and arrange marriages for. Interesting stuff, if you’re into that kind of long-term planning. It’s not really my thing.”

“What’s your thing, Trey?”

He laughs, and brushes his hair back with one hand. It’s too practiced a gesture to fool me, though he still makes it look damn good. “That’s a broad question. I don’t know... People? Not as a big mass, but I like individuals. Humans and demons both, though it’s easier to find likable humans than likable demons, once I start looking further than the company.”

Not an entirely satisfying answer, but if I’m lying to him about personal matters, I can’t expect him to give me a lot of personal information in turn. (Though I do remember what he said about that house, with his garden of potted plants and the cat he keeps. That was personal, and I think it was honest.) “Everyone needs a hobby,” I say, and sweep the change into a pile to drop into the pocket of my shiny new jeans, which still look good. That won’t last.

“It was either that or drag racing,” Trey says. 

We wander back out into the main room, as we both have work yet to do, and find Zabina’s back, having a snippy, low-voiced conversation with Julie. Guo’s studying the two of them over his book, which is to his credit.

“I was stealing things with wheels attached,” Julie says to Zabina, “back when you were studying languages that were _already dead_ , so I think I know how to handle the process.”

“No doubt you have it under control,” Zabina says levely. Her envelope is tucked into her purse, the edge of it barely showing from the side pocket, and I wonder suddenly if Julie peeked while no one was looking. I bet she knows how. “Nonetheless, given the current project and the need for security--”

“If I put this one back, I’ll just have to steal _another_ one,” Julie says. “Unless you want to hand over the keys, Zee? I could use the car we have. That’d work fine too.”

“I’ll ditch it,” I say. “Does it matter where, and should I pick up a replacement on the way back?”

“Two miles or more,” Zabina says. “Do you need a replacement immediately, Julie? Or anything else fetched for you while he’s out?”

“No, Zee,” Julie says sweetly. “Wouldn’t want to put anyone to extra trouble for my sake.” She offers me the keys. “It’s the blue Escort three blocks to the west. I’d come along, but I have work to do.”

Don’t we all. Maybe in another day she’ll have her attacks recalibrated, because Zabina’s quite pointedly not paying attention to the conversation anymore, and Guo’s wearing that abashed look that says he’s suddenly painfully conscious of not having an immediate task to make him look like a useful member of this group.

“I’ll go with you,” Trey says. He grabs my messenger bag--it works just as well for this vessel as the other one--and drops his tablet in. Julie gets a kiss on the cheek, Guo a pat on the shoulder, and he’s out the door before I am.

I’m not sure if he’s that desperate to get out of the apartment, or if I’m still on the list as requiring babysitting for trips further than the coffee shop.

When we’re in the car, I ask him exactly that. Because at this point I want to see how he answers the awkward questions, when I feel up to asking them.

“A little of each,” he says. “We’re all supposed to be careful moving around the city, since we don’t have local Roles and contacts to protect us the way we would at home. Where I usually live, I could hardly get myself arrested if I drove a car into an embassy. Except no one really wants to go out in pairs all the time--it makes work nearly impossible--so we generally find excuses to go alone. Julie sends pictures back, Guo swaps hosts if he gets even a little bit nervous...” He shrugs. “I take care. Or go with someone. But it would be exceptionally embarrassing at this point if something happened to you while you went out alone.”

“Embarrassing to who?”

“Us,” Trey says. He laces his hands behind his head, comfortable in that seat the way I’m not at all in mine. (It’s actually a little weird to drive in this vessel. I’m not used to having quite this angle on the windshield.) “If we let you walk out of there into trouble, all on your own, when we could’ve come along and prevented it? Chaixin would have _words_ with us.”

“It’s nice to know someone cares,” I say, and take a hard left. I’m not driving anywhere in particular. The trip is an excuse for more private conversation, at this point. “Any preferences on where we leave the car?”

“Anywhere,” Trey says, waving out towards the city. “I’d as soon drive all the way out to Mount Rainier, and do my work in the car.”

“How far behind are you?”

“Far enough,” he says. “And Julie would be harassing me about it by more than email if she weren’t...distracted.” He smiles sideways at me, a sharp little expression. “None of them are usually this edgy. It’s the space issue. That and the competition, with a side order of standard culture shock.Everyone’s being so damn careful to act local, they’re not quite themselves.”

“I wouldn’t know the difference. Seems pretty standard behavior for demons to me.”

“Yes,” he says, “but you’ve had lousy experiences.”

“Maybe I’m just not good with roommates.” I pick a turn at random. This is one way to get a better feel for the city, in case a real car chase comes up later. “Demon ones, anyway. I had one back in Fire, for something like a week. Ended badly. Roomed with my girlfriend--I mean, back when she was a girlfriend--and you know about how that ended. I’m not sure demons are meant to live with each other. We’re too good at being manipulative sociopaths to like another one like us in close quarters.”

“You’re not doing badly so far. What happened to the first roommate?”

“Ran off to join the Sword.”

“Leo,” Trey says, “if you ever warn me about something having to do with angels, at this point, I am going to take your word on it, and run the hell away from whatever it is. How do you run into these people?”

“Hey, those ones I didn’t meet. That was the time when I got jumped by a Judgment triad. The first time.” I drum my fingers on the steering wheel. Then I stop when I realize I’m using the rhythm Zhune--and Chaixin--prefer. “These things happen. Maybe you’re not getting out often enough.”

“Maybe.”

“Or maybe you outsource those sorts of things to contractors? Or a different department in the company?”

“No, we just try to make sure there’s a healthy buffer of ignorant humans between us and the angels. Very handy.” He tilts his seat back a notch, eyes sliding half shut. “Manipulative I’ll cop to, but we’re not sociopaths. We’re just not the same species as humans, so of course we don’t mesh with them the way they do with each other. Some demons want to set the world on fire, or chew their way through everything in front of them, but I don’t. I want to get my job done and then enjoy myself. So I do. And it generally doesn’t hurt anyone.” He nudges me in the shoulder with an elbow. “And you’re trying to pick a fight.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.” He grins, and I have to smile back. If only briefly. “You work on the corporeal, right? Well, do you get along with humans?”

“More or less.”

“Then does it really matter how well you get along with demons in general? Or if you’re able to room with one comfortably? Maybe if you were working in Hell. But here on Earth, there are so many humans, you can just about deal with them constantly, and be...careful and deliberate, when you have to deal with demons. If that’s how you’d like it.”

I don’t know. Is that how I’d like it? Put together a set of friends who don’t know a damn thing about who I really am, settle down in a circuit of lackeys and worshippers and people who adore me the way they do Impudites. It doesn’t sound like all that much fun. “Is that how you like it?”

“I like humans, but they’re not better than demons. Just...different. More independent-minded than clothes and cars, less so than cats and clouds. More useful than pets, but not really coworkers in the long-term sense.” He shrugs fluidly. “Demons are good to work with. Can be, anyway. They’re smarter and better at thinking long-term.”

“You’re meeting a different class of demon than I’ve been.”

“Likely.” He closes his eyes, and lets me drive for a while. Because I’m not sure that there’s really anything to argue about, and he doesn’t seem willing to debate it too far. What do I even care what he thinks about humans or demons? It’s all...theory. General principle. Has nothing to do with what goes on in this job or between us.

Us, I say, like that’s some sort of appropriate pronoun. He works for the Marquis, and I work with Zhune, and that’s pretty much the defining line on everything right there.

“If you go out clubbing with Julie again,” Trey says, without opening his eyes, “you should wear that bracelet. It’ll go just as well with this vessel as the other one. Maybe better.”

“What makes you think I’m going clubbing again?”

“Experience with Julie.”

I wonder what it means if I wear his presents out on a night with her. Something different, I think, than it does when I wore the clothes Zabina bought me, but different again from what it would mean if Zabina got me something...personal, and not so clearly work-related. She isn’t likely to, and if she does, that’s going to mean something else again.

Just thinking about this is starting to give me a headache.

“Tell you what. If you’ll join the party, I’ll go clubbing the next time she asks, and that way I help you keep her happy and don’t spend the entire evening hiding at a table texting a friend.”

“You ask a lot of me,” Trey says, “but it’s a deal.” He cracks his eyes open. “If you turn right at that light, we can go to the library.”

“Which library?”

“Central library. The building really sticks out. These weird angles, a lot of glass... Thought you might like it. Or like criticizing it, depending on how you feel about that architectural style.”

I take the right. “There’s not a lot of point in going to libraries, when I can’t take any books out.”

“Can’t?” He sounds unreasonably amused on that one.

“Stealing from libraries is _petty_. I don’t do that shit.”

“Zabina’s the same way about shoplifting, so I’m not about to argue. How about I get you a library card?”

“With no ID?”

“Impudite,” he says, spreading his hands. “If I can’t walk into that library and get you a brand new library card with whatever name you like on it, without the slightest shred of ID on your side, they may as well take away my license to Charm.”

“I’m holding you to that one.”

“Oh, I expect you will.”


	28. In Which Sometimes It’s That Simple

It takes Trey until Tuesday afternoon to finish whatever it was that other people were waiting on. He stands up, stretches, and tells Julie, “I get the apartment tonight.”

“Does that mean you’re done?” She brightens at the very idea, and I can’t tell if she’s that eager to get her work moving along, or looking forward to being able to drag him out on expeditions again.

“Check your inbox.” He walks past Guo, who’s peering up from one of the library books we brought back for him. “Why don’t you go out with Julie tonight? You don’t know a damn thing about clubbing, and she can show you how to pick people up in clubs. And how to dance.”

“Sure,” Guo says. He straightens up whenever Trey’s watching him like that. It’s the exact opposite of a cower, and I wonder why, if anyone’s going to end up as a manager among these people here, Chaixin doesn’t make Trey the one. He’s good at getting the best out of people.

Maybe Trey’s too smart to take the job.

Zabina glances over at Trey, and says nothing. Probably nothing has to be said, because ten minutes later she’s packing up her laptop. She even cedes the rental’s keys to Julie without argument; she must have had plans for the night already.

That turns dinner into a four-person affair, and a quiet one. Not because Zabina is gone, but because Julie and Guo are busy plotting their fashion strategy for the evening, and neither Trey nor I have anything to add to the conversation. Guo helps clean up a bit, but then he’s off behind Julie, who has sweeping plans for...I’m not sure what. Something to do with host choice and clothing selection and moving between multiple clubs. I wish them fun.

When the dishes are put away, I slouch against a counter and watch Trey wipe down the table. There are a few different things I could say here. Most of them are petty or flippant. A way of making sure he knows I have my defenses up.

Pretty sure he knows that already. No reason to make it explicit.

He finishes with the table. Hangs up the washcloth, and wipes his hands off on his jeans as he glances over my way. We’re dressed a bit alike, right now. Jeans, button-down shirt, good shoes for stomping around in. (He convinced me to buy more formal shoes, but I managed to pick up a good set of boots as well. Just for the feel of them.) He looks better in his ridiculously expensive t-shirts, which I do not have the physique to pull off the same way in this vessel.

“Any plans for the evening?” he asks me.

I spread my hands out against the edge of the counter. “Read a few books. Text a friend. Contemplate the odder aspects of building codes. I expect it to be a thrill ride.”

“If I knew you wanted thrill rides,” he says, “I would’ve asked for the car keys instead of the apartment.”

“If I’d known we were catering to my interests tonight, I would’ve asked for beer.”

“There could be beer. It wasn’t what I had planned. Do you mind if I seduce you tonight?”

“...could I get back to you on that one?”

“Take your time.” He leans against the dining table, facing me. Hands spread along the edge just like mine are here.

I am entirely sure no one has ever asked me that question before. “If I do mind, what’s behind the other door?”

“I’ll hit a liquor store to pick up that beer you asked for, and see if I have any movies that you want to watch. Otherwise, it’s library books and flash games.” His smile’s quick, but I want to say it’s genuine. “I did not lay in supplies for a wild night of platonic revelry.”

“Is beer _and_ seduction an option?”

I’m not sure I even meant that question seriously, but Trey gives it a second of thought. “If that’s what you like, sure. Up to a point. But I don’t take anyone to bed when they’re falling over drunk. Too much ambiguity.”

“So how about you get the beer, and I’ll think about it.”

“Sure,” he says, and grabs his jacket from the hook by the door. “Just don’t bolt out a back window while I’m gone, please. That kind of thing is hard to explain to the boss.”

“I wasn’t planning on it,” I tell him, which is the honest truth. Might’ve been keeping it open as a distant option, but I’m always keeping that sort of thing open as a distant option. Part of Theft is knowing the exits, and which ones are least likely to be watched.

While he’s out getting beer, I tidy up my coffee table--god, I miss having a real office--and think about exits and escape routes and what I would have to do if I meant to get away from Chaixin. Doesn’t take me long to come to the same conclusion as always: that does not work. Zhune moved to a _different continent_ on a permanent basis to get away from her the last time they were seriously at odds, and I can’t imagine she’s become any less resourceful or determined since. So. That’s a no-go. What she wants, she gets, for as long as she decides to ask me for anything.

Does it follow that Trey gets everything he wants? No, I don’t think so. These people please and thwart each other in turn, as they please and as office politics take them, and if I’m being treated like an unreliable new hire who can’t be trusted with a key to the supply closet yet, I’m still being treated as something of a coworker.

And when I was falling down drunk, he put me to bed with a glass of water. I think that Trey is nearly as safe as Ash. I can’t trust his promises the same way, but I’m not so _entirely_ paranoid that I refuse to believe the evidence at hand.

Which I guess leaves the ball in my court, just as Trey put it there. Do I want to be seduced? By him?

Do I want to spend this whole night gnawing at the question and putting off the answer until it defaults to no? Mm. No. I do not. I’d rather make a choice, even if it’s the wrong one. And in the grand scheme of things, who I have sex with isn’t all that important, whatever Zhune thinks about it. This should not be a big question. This should be--exactly the sort of question Trey asked, with a simple answer.

When he gets back with the beer, I help him put it away. The DVDs he picked up I do not deign to touch. “The complete Mission Impossible collection? Really?”

“It has explosions,” Trey says. “You like explosions. Figured we’d keep our options open.”

“I prefer the real kind, but special effects are acceptable in a pinch.” I take a corner of a couch, and wait for him to join me. At the other side, which is such a deliberate offer of space that it makes me wonder what he thinks of me. Really.

Maybe it’s better not to know.

“Door number one, door number two?” Trey pulls his boots off one by one, watching me all the while. “Deferring the decision a while longer?”

“Door number one, but I’m not making any promises.”

He shrugs lightly. “If it was _guaranteed_ , it wouldn’t be seduction, now, would it?”

I take off my shoes so that I can pull my feet up on the couch as well. “I should also make it perfectly clear, so that we’re all aware of the risks here, that if you do get anywhere with this and my partner finds out, he may try to, uh, murder you. FYI.”

Trey laces his fingers behind his head, and slides down on the couch until his feet are nearly touching mine. “Corporeally or celestially?”

“Kinda hard to say. Guess it would depend on where he caught up with you.”

He nods thoughtfully. “Are you planning on telling him?”

“No, but he has this nasty habit of figuring things out anyway.” I rest my chin on my knees, and try to work out what else I ought to cover. “On the plus side, my ex-girlfriend is unlikely to cause any problems. Sure, she’d get murderous at anyone I seemed too interested in while we were still dating, but these days she just tries to recruit me.”

“Do you have any people you’ve dated who wouldn’t be relentlessly hostile to me if I met them now?” Trey asks brightly.

I contemplate the likely reactions of Al or Nik. “...maybe. It depends on how loosely we’re defining dating.”

“Mmhmm. Thank you for the warning, Leo, but I’m not too worried.” He slides one bare foot further out to slide it past my ankle, and rests it there against me. Barely even counts as skin contact. “My turn to give out warnings?”

“Seems like.”

He whips his hands out from behind his head to count out on his fingers. A deliberate bit of showmanship, and the sly edge to his smile says he _knows_ it, and knows that I do too. “First off, if you’re wondering whether I talk to Julie about you? Sure. Same as we talk about her, sometimes. So that’s given me a few ideas to run past you, but if you’d rather I pretend otherwise, tell me now.”

“Suspected as much,” I say. More honestly, I hadn’t thought about it, because it wasn’t the kind of thing I wanted to contemplate. (And what _did_ Julie say on the topic of me, and me in bed?) “No reason to pretend otherwise.”

“Second,” he says, the next finger up, “I like this vessel of yours better. If you’d rather work with the other, I’m fine with that too. But we all have our preferences, don’t we? And if you have a strong preference for a different shape... I have another I can work with. But this one is my favorite.”

“That one,” I point out, “actually looks like you.”

“Exactly. I like dressing up, but I like being myself. So, are we good on the current vessel combination?”

“Theoretically,” I say. “But, yes. We’re good.” I’ve never cared much about whether the person I was having sex with wore a male or female vessel, so I may as well save him the Essence cost and stick with the one I already know I like.

(I knew I liked it the first time I saw him walk through that door and pull on a shirt. Hell, I knew I liked what he looked like back in Stygia, even though I don’t usually go for Impudites. Maybe he’s just that good at seduction even when he’s not putting any effort into it, or maybe it’s coincidence and I’m overthinking this again.)

“Third. Office politics.”

“Fuck, I’ve been staying out of those.”

He has a wry smile for me now. “Not very well. Julie will try even harder to drag you back into bed, and Guo will probably sulk. Zabina... will have opinions, but she’s usually more subtle about these things.”

“Is it likely to be a significant change from the current state?”

He tilts a hand in the air. “Depends on how much you like Julie taking your pants off.”

“I can cope if we’re not in public.” And I am abruptly annoyed at my own posture. Here I’ve been telling Guo not to hunch, and I’m curled up with my arms in front of my knees like there’s someone to fear in the room. I slouch back onto my arm of the couch, and stretch my legs out over Trey’s and between them. Better. “Does Zabina just not do the political games that involve getting someone into bed?”

“I’m...not sure. It’s hard to say what’s political and what’s not, with her. Maybe everything’s political. But she won’t go for your current vessel.” His smile’s suddenly pure mischief. I’ve seen similar on Katherine before. “If you really want to know how to seduce her, I can tell you.”

“Well, now that you’ve _offered_ , how can I not ask?”

“You put on the other vessel,” Trey says. “The clothes she bought you. Make sure to wear those shoes with the heels. And then some time when she’s at work, you walk up to her and tell her that you’re between tasks right now on your work, and does she have any instructions for you?”

Now that is a mental image that is going to stick with me for a while. I can hear exactly how she would want that said, too. “Doesn’t anyone in this apartment have a _normal_ sex life?”

“Define normal?”

“...point. Are we through the warnings yet? Because at this rate I’m going to come up with a few more of my own.”

“Almost,” Trey says, “though I’ve lost track of the number--”

“Three, so next up is four.”

“Four.” He rests his arm along the back of the couch, with a faint smile for me. “I like you. I would like to _keep_ you, if I could. And that’s a group consensus, there. We’d rather you moved full-time and stayed with us.”

“That’s not an option.” I am not in a position to fold my arms, so all I do is tilt my head back and watch the ceiling instead of looking at him. “This is strictly contract work.”

“Maybe so. But you ought to know that it’s on our minds.”

“What would you even do with a spare Calabite, if you had one? Because you’re pretty well-equipped on the destroying front already, with your Marquis.”

He stretches out a leg until his toe catches in a belt loop on my jeans, and nudges me there. “That’s not all Calabim are good for. But, oh, let me think. Julie would introduce you to a hundred friends and buy you clothes and take you housebreaking. Guo would start making big puppy eyes at you to approve of him and pat him on the head. Zabina would find you a trendy flat for each of your vessels, in two different cities, and fill them up with books she approves of, and teach you French.”

I go ahead and look back at him again. He’s watching me, so it’s only fair. “And what would you do, given the chance?”

“I’d take you home,” he says lazily, fingers laced behind his head. “Show you my garden, introduce you to my cat and my boyfriend. And then I would like to fuck you across the kitchen table while my boyfriend makes dinner.”

“Accommodating boyfriend,” I say, because I am not sure I can form a full and coherent sentence in response to that right now.

“Why would I keep one who wasn’t?” He has a toothy smile that would do Valefor proud. “Did you know that you blush in this vessel too?”

I did not know. And now that he’s pointed this out, I can feel the heat in my face and neck, and I am terribly glad that there’s no mirror at hand. “If you use the word ‘adorable’ at any point, Trey, I swear to god I am turning this seduction right back around and we’re watching movies all night.”

“The word won’t pass my lips. Regardless of what I’m thinking.” He pulls his feet back and turns his languid sprawl into a kneel between my legs while I’m still contemplating the implications of that second sentence. “We can loop a video of explosions from various movies chained together in the background if it would help.”

“Is that how Calabite seduction is supposed to work? All explosions?”

“It hasn’t come up much,” Trey says, “so you’re sort of the test case here.” He sets his hands on his knees, leaning in towards me. He’s not near enough to be exactly looming, nor does he have the expression for it. “What do you say? Should I extrapolate out from your preferences to your entire Band?”

“Wouldn’t recommend it.”

“I didn’t think so. Fortunately, I’m not trying to seduce the Band as a whole.” He leans forward, hands slipping off his knees to plant themselves on the arm of the couch above my shoulders. “Imagine how hard that would be. For one, they wouldn’t all fit in the room.”

“And if you did try to wedge them in here together, you wouldn’t have much of a room left.” I wonder how long he’ll wait there, his face half a meter from mine, while we talk about nothing consequential. “Now I’m wondering how many angels really _can_ dance on the head of a pin.”

“Depends on whether it’s a Vapulan pin or one from Lightning.” He reaches out a hand, but just to flick the edge of my collar down properly. “In the first case, no one can get a count because it explodes the first time one steps foot on it. In the second case, no one can get a count because it never, ever leaves beta and ships.”

“This calls for a new study.” This situation calls for action, and I don’t know that I’m capable of implementing any if he won’t first. That’s not how this usually works. I’m too sober for this to be a good idea yet, and even so, here we are.

_Is it so hard to ask for what you want?_

Yeah, Penny, it generally is.

“Here I didn’t know you were into experimentation,” Trey says. We could go on like this all night. Conversation’s always an option, and I like that. People talking to me like I’m the sort of person worth talking to.

“Now and again. Would you get to kissing me already before I change my mind?”

He does. We do. He’s still stretched out over me, propped on his knees and one hand against the arm of the couch, and he has to tilt his head down far enough to reach mine that his hair’s sliding across my face. I hadn’t realized quite how long his hair was, until now, with how he always keeps it back. Trey is nothing like Julie in how he kisses, all careful light touches separated by a half second of _not_ touching, and he tastes like the brand of cigarettes that we share.

We’re barely touching, and I _can’t_ avoid thinking of a couch in a living room with an enormous window looking out onto a balcony, the remains of several beer bottles beside us, and the way Penny straddled me and never once pinned me down. I didn’t know how to interpret it back then, and don’t now, and I’m half sure they have different reasons for it. (Penny can’t ever have been worried that I would hurt him. Could he?) It’s an awkward position, but I draw back a foot far enough to shove at one of Trey’s knees, until he gets the hint and collapses on top of me. Better.

He holds a kiss for longer once his weight’s all laid across me. “Changed your mind yet?” he asks, in a pause from that.

“Not yet.”

“Good.” He slides down a few inches to nip at my neck right over my pulse, a sharp bite that’s more pointed than any kiss with a touch of teeth, and oh I am sure he and Julie talk about these things, and now I wonder what she figured out about me that she told him without getting to it herself. Because. What a conversation that must have been.

And he doesn’t have to say it. _Let me know if you’d rather not._ We can take that as a given, I can assume that if I say no he might even _listen_ , unlike--some people I know.

Though it’s not often anymore that I say _no_ as the outright word, because in some ways it’s easier to let someone press if we all maintain plausible deniability. If I pretend I don’t mind all that much and that it would make a difference if I said that sort of thing.

Never mind that. I am not saying anything because I am for this, and if I’m lucky Trey can take the hint from my hands on his shoulder and the back of his head, from the way my breath hisses out whether I want it to or not when he bites hard, and we can get a ways without my asking for everything.

The next bite’s so sharp that I gasp, all without meaning to. The space between shoulder and neck, right under the collar of my shirt. “Fuck, Trey, that’s going to leave a mark.”

“I certainly hope so,” he says, his voice full of that lazy smugness that I associate more with pleased Balseraphs than Impudites, but why shouldn’t it apply to both? (And some Djinn as well.) Self-satisfaction is what a demon gets when they enjoy their jobs. For all the overwork, Trey seems to like his job quite a lot.

Though I’m mostly certain this isn’t part of it. Because what’s he getting out of this for work? I’m already a well-behaved contractor, polite to coworkers, chatty on smoke breaks and focused during work hours. He does not need to unbutton my shirt (I like this plan, I should find a way to encourage him, as he’s stopped two buttons in to do interesting things to my collarbone) for _work purposes_. Which does sort of imply it’s actually something he just wants. From me. With me.

With me, and maybe I should indicate that, I don’t know, this is something I’m specifically for. I can’t reach anything interesting from this position, but I can dig my hands into his unreasonably pretty hair and just--make encouraging noises. Because even when this hurts, and he’s reached the point where it’s two third kisses and playful little nips and about one third sharp bites that remind me terribly of Regan, it’s the kind of hurt I can work with. Like Julie all over again. (Is this an Impudite thing? Or is it just these people? _Define normal_. Right.)

“Hey, Leo,” Trey says, lifting his head to where I can meet his eyes again. “We got you two of these shirts, right?”

“Four or five. Or do you mean in this color?” Leave it to an Impudite to break into a discussion of clothing while we’re making out. Like I’m _not_ going to humor him if that’s what turns him on.

“Right, this exact version. Two?”

“I think so.”

“Good.” Trey sits up, grins toothily at me, and yanks my shirt open, top to bottom. A button pings off the coffee table, and I think that was a second that went flying past him. “I’d hate to ruin a shirt you like if you didn’t have a backup ready.”

“And I thought _I_ was hard on clothes.” I hook two fingers into his collar, and slide them down to where his shirt’s buttons are all still locked up. “Any backups?”

“Of this one? No.”

“Then hold on a second.” And I pop open the buttons on his shirt one by one, without so much as pulling one too hard and making it dangle. “Though it’s not your best clothing option. You look better in the t-shirts.”

“Didn’t know you cared, Leo.” He perches on one of my knees, a solid weight there, and I crook my freer leg around his side. “I thought you weren’t into the whole fashion thing.”

“I’m not.” I undo the last button, and tug the shirt free. “That doesn’t mean I don’t have opinions on what other people wear. I can _appreciate_ how you look in those clingy black t-shirts, or Julie’s shiny pants, even if I couldn’t put together the outfit myself. Or wouldn’t wear it in the first place.”

“And you just know Zabina will have opinions about destroying clothes,” Trey says lightly.

I look down across my left arm at the shirt there, and pull together enough concentration to think about the way fabric hangs together. Or doesn’t. On a slightly more detailed level than I usually do... And the shirt falls apart around me, sliding off my shoulders in a wave of thread fragments too small to hold onto each other in the weave anymore. “Not if she doesn’t encounter any evidence of it.”

“If she finds a button,” Trey says, “I’ll swear I have no idea where it came from.” He shrugs off his shirt, and that one is draped carefully over the back of the sofa. Probably won’t even wrinkle, unless we kick it down during--other things.

“How sure are we that she _won’t_ be back for a while?”

“Completely,” Trey says. “I figure we have until the bars close, at the earliest. For Julie, that is. Zabina won’t be back until morning.” He rests a hand on the center of my chest, fingers spread wide. “Besides, if Julie interrupted us, she’d be polite enough to crash in the room for a while until we were done. Assuming you didn’t want the company, and that is--you know, Leo, when you turn that color, I just want to keep finding reasons to make you blush.”

I’m pretty sure I know what word he edited out there, and I should be grateful for that. “Right. Unless you _require_ couches for your amazing seduction plan, we’re moving to the bedroom. And closing the damn door.”

“If that’s what you like,” Trey says. He drags a fingernail down to the waistband of my jeans before standing up on the couch. “If I desperately need any furniture from the living room, I can drag it in there.” He steps over me, balancing a moment on one foot at the couch’s arm, then drops lightly to the ground. Show-off. (I sort of admire that in a man.) “Though I might need to get your help if that comes up. I’m not sure this couch _fits_ through that door without disassembly.”

I roll to my feet and follow him. “Would you want help picking up the couch, or just taking it apart?”

“Depends on whether it’s the kind of taking apart that people would notice when they got back.” He holds the door open for me, like some absurd imitation of chivalry. Or of human gender roles. (Or maybe he’s just watching to make sure I don’t suddenly bolt.) “Zabina _would_ complain. Even Julie might; she likes those couches.”

“They’re not bad couches, really. I sort of want one, but where would I put it?”

Trey gives me a look. A brief shift in expression that says he’s thinking something even if he doesn’t think it’s a good idea to express it out loud. And then the moment’s gone, and we’re both in the bedroom, and he shuts the door behind us. “Here,” he says, leaning against the door, “now we can be sure no one will wander in on us.”

“Yes, right up until we want to do something that requires you leave the door. If we lock it, no one will wander in by _accident_.” It feels absurd to fold my arms when I’m not wearing a shirt--must remember to clean up that mess on the rug later--and I find I’ve clasped a wrist behind my back, instead. Not attention or parade rest, but an in-between stance that Regan said was casual but properly attentive. “Unless people would just take it as a challenge?”

“Only Julie, and I told you, she’ll be polite.” He looks me up and down, in a way I don’t usually get in this vessel. “It’d be excessively forward of me to ask you to get on your knees. Especially so early in the night. But damn, Leo, you would look good there.”

There is a part of me that says _You could make it through the window even with the door blocked,_ but I ignore that. It’s as unreasonable as the part of me saying _It’s about time,_ like I haven’t been the one edging away from every sign of interest before. “I think,” I say carefully, because my mouth’s gone a little dry, “that we’ve established by this point that you’re one forward bastard, Trey. So you might as well ask.”

I am folding my arms, now. Defensive gesture of a sort, but we can work around this. He’s good about dealing with how I’m--difficult, as Zhune would put it. Some fundamental flaw in my nature that won’t let me pick the easy and simple solutions to problems, just because I have some unreasonable personal opinion developed by thinking about things too much.

Trey doesn’t seem like he overthinks things. “Would you get down on your knees right here?” he asks, and points directly in front of him. I drop down there, knees to the rug, and tilt my head back so that I can still see his expression. “As long as you’re there, would you--”

“Hey,” I tell him, “one question at a time.” I unbutton his jeans, unzip them, and then work those down far enough that I can slide his underwear down. It’s a bit of a chore. “What is _with_ you people and tight pants? At least these aren’t so skinny as the ones Ash wears.”

“I look good in them,” Trey says. He reaches down towards me but just to drag the side of one finger across my cheek. “You would look good in them too, if you felt like getting a few pairs.”

“But I don’t feel like it,” I say, “so I’ll just have to settle for looking bad.”

“You’re going to have to do a lot more than avoid tight jeans if you want to look bad,” Trey says cheerfully, and since I have no idea how I feel about that statement, I lean in and take him into my mouth to cut off this line of conversation.

I am, let’s be honest, trying to prove something to him. I’m not quite sure _what_ , but I know it’s part of this. Some combination of _I know what I’m doing_ and _I’m not afraid of any of this_ and _Hey, look, social skills, I have a few._ Insofar as you could call what I’m doing a social skill. Maybe I just want to prove that I have a few ideas of my own, and it’s not strictly necessary to tell me what to do at every stage of this process if he wants anything to happen. We _both_ want this, don’t we?

If I’m being manipulated, I’m being manipulated willingly, and that’s about the best I’m ever going to get out of a relationship with another demon.

I’d like to think that I’m doing a decent job. Ash has never had any complaints, but “never” encompasses a sparse handful of instances, and he’s not really one to complain. Regan generally expressed any commentary she had on my performance by direct and physical means. And Trey--well, he’s not giving detailed verbal feedback as such, but I am choosing to interpret the small encouraging noises he makes as satisfied ones.

I wrap my hands around the backs of his legs, and he gets his hands at the back of my head, and, hell, it’s not even about the sex, I just want this connection right here. Holding onto each other like maybe we’re interested in staying near to each other for a while.

It’s just. Nice.

When Trey slides his hands down to my shoulders, and grabs on tight, I’ve got plenty of warning. So I lean in and hold on and--prove something. I don’t know what. That I know how to swallow? Ha. Whatever it is that I’m trying to say here by what I’m doing, it’s probably not being communicated accurately anyway. Maybe it’s simpler than that. Maybe I just want him to have enough of a good time that we can try this again.

And when he’s finished, I sit back on my heels and wait to see what happens next. Because this is the point where I find out a little more about the sort of person he is. Or what he wants. I know what Regan’s like when she’s done with getting off.

(But I didn’t really mind, did I? I was getting something out of that relationship too, no matter how much she pushed me around. It’s only in retrospect, or when I was already frustrated with her about something, that those sorts of moves bothered me.)

Trey sinks down to the floor, his knees on the outside of mine, and pulls in close for a kiss. Nothing fancy about this one, but it’s deep and personal and not--finicky. Not like he has any intention of backing off now that he’s gotten something out of this.

“We should do that again, some time,” he says, an inch from my face and smiling like he’s won something. (Reminds me of Julie, for a moment. Not in a bad way.) “Or even _many_ times, if you’re up for it. Now and again.”

“We should.” Which is the wrong thing to say, I should be noncommittal and not imply any promises when anything could still happen, but I agree and I am so tired of trying to work out what response isn’t going to get me hurt. Liking someone means setting yourself up to get hurt, no two ways about it, and I can’t help liking Trey. I might as well go all in.

“I have a few more ideas,” he says, petting my hair in a way I don’t mind at all, because it is nothing like the way Zhune (or Valefor) ruffles my hair to show some kind of temporary affection. And the petting feels different with this vessel’s hair than in the other one, even if the haircuts aren’t that far apart. “Want to keep going, or take a break?”

“Depends on how exciting the break would be.” No, I don’t want to _stop_. If I don’t keep going, I might lose my nerve.

“Utterly boring. That’s why it’s called ‘a break’ and not ‘a round of fun and thrills.’” He twists my hair around his fingers--there’s not far it can go, at this length--and grins at me from oh so close. “We could see if there are any copies of Monopoly hidden somewhere in the house.”

“Isn’t that a way to invoke Malphas?”

“Good point. Wouldn’t want to traumatize Guo.” His fingers slip from my hair to trail across my cheek, down towards my jaw. “Checkers?”

“I think that summons Asmodeus. Let’s not risk it.”

“Chess?”

“Baal.”

“I’m running out of board game options,” Trey says. “And I haven’t even checked the cupboards yet. Operation?”

“That one might be Novalis,” I say, “and this doesn’t seem like the kind of apartment that would have a copy, unless they meant it really ironically.”

“Point. Go?”

“I think that one’s Michael. Let’s _not_.” Meeting him once was once more than I’d like to, really.

“The Game of Life?”

“I think that one’s either Mammon or Marc. Not sure which. Unless all the ‘acquire children to sell for money at the end of your life’ is an Eli thing.” I drop my chin onto the crook of his shoulder. “How do you know about all these things, anyway? You don’t even live in this country. On this _continent_.”

“I study it. Easier now with the internet. Being able to pass for local makes the jobs here easier, when they come up. What about you? Do you sit down with your partner now and again for a good game of Parcheesi?”

The mind _boggles_ at the very concept. I think that would end with one or the other of us flipping the table.

Well. Zhune would flip the table. I’d probably destroy it.

“There was a board game club back in college. My girlfriend would drag me in once in a while. She said it was a good way to practice strategy.” And what else was I going to do with empty evenings when I was done with homework? It took me until junior year to acquire anything you could call a hobby that wasn’t about setting things on fire, or just breaking them.

“Four years in college. That must’ve been fascinating. Or unearthly dull, I’m not sure which. How did you like it?” His fingertips skate across my skin, along my jaw and down my neck and _oh_ that was a place where he bit, not quite a bruise there but something near to it, and I flinch back before I can find out whether or not it’s a bruise enough for that thing that happens.

Trey holds his hand back. And he shifts his weight back, so that he’s less sitting on my thighs and more on his own heels. “Did that hurt?” he asks, suddenly careful and not so light as in his previous question.

“No. It’s. No. That doesn’t hurt.” I don’t want to explain this. I would like to never have to explain this to anyone ever again, for it to not be a thing that exists such that explanations are necessary. That is not an option here. “I don’t mind the damn bruises, just don’t...touch them. Afterward.”

He’s quiet for a moment. Still sitting back, and I wish he wouldn’t. If I hadn’t flinched, if I’d just _let_ him touch those, and acted like that’s something I’m into for whatever reason, like it’s me and not something that happened to me, there would not be this space between us.

“Someone from Lust?” That’s all he asks.

He would know. God, he _would_ know what a reaction like that means. For all I know he has a few peculiar responses of his own that he’s learned to either be okay with or keep people from running into.

“Yeah, well. These things happen.”

He nods shortly. “I’ll be careful,” he says. Then he settles back in, right where he was, and lays his hands further out on my shoulders, beyond anywhere that he left a bite and a mark. “Should I make sure not to touch them at all?”

“Just not--like that.” Hell, like I can explain it. There is no way I’m going into detail there, but he nods like this is explanation enough. “Let’s skip the break and get back to the sex. Seduction. Whatever.”

“The line between the two gets fuzzy,” Trey says, cheerful like nothing we talked about ever came up, and that’s exactly what I’d like. The last thing I want right now is some kind of pity, and he kisses me hard, pressing in until I’m tilting backward under the force. (He’s not as strong as Julie, nowhere near as strong as Zhune. Doesn’t matter. It’s not like I’m resisting this.) I fall back onto my elbows, back of my head shoved up against the spring mattress of the bed, the bed frame digging into my back when I collapse further. Not a comfortable position, but I’ll take it.

The Impudite in my lap breaks away from kissing to take a breath. Oh, I’m sure he could breathe find without that, but I appreciate the pose. He _looks_ a little breathless, and so very intent on what we’re doing. Can’t help enjoying the attention, and maybe he’s just as interested in how I’m staring up at him.

“You’re going to get a crick in your neck,” he says conversationally. “Bed?”

“Sure.”

And so we climb up on there, in the mess of blankets and sheets from whatever happened here last. Guo curling up with a book, maybe; he’s the type to go hide under the blankets with a flashlight when he wants a little privacy. The sheets seem clean. (I’m pretty sure he’s the one who’s been doing all the laundry, too.) Trey strips off his jeans along the way, and once I’m seated, starts pulling mine off. “You’ll have to tell me if you’re getting bored,” he says. “Because beer and movies remain an option.”

“In much the way that Parcheesi does, yes.” I twist around to help him get the remainder of my clothes off. “Did you remember to lock the door?”

“No one’s going to walk in on us unless the building is on fire.” He laces his fingers behind my head this time, and pulls me in close. Face to face, which I am increasingly fond of as a way to sit with him. At least in private. “I like the way you look. A pity about that whole run-in with that angel, but I can’t be sorry about getting to check out this vessel.”

“This is the boring one, Trey. It’s _inconspicuous_.”

“Only to people with no taste.” He presses his forehead to mine. “Or different preferences, but that may as well be the same thing.”

“Your tastes should be universal?”

“Wouldn’t the world be a better place if they were?” A toothy smile as he pulls back. “You should tell me what you like, some time. We’ll have the best time where our tastes overlap. Ever tried bondage?”

“I’m a Calabite, Trey. What would be the _point_?”

“I would think,” he says, “that it would be all the easier that way. You don’t have to trust someone quite as far if you know you can get out of the bonds at any time. What you don’t break, you’re accepting because you want them there.” He shrugs loosely. “It seemed like the kind of thing your ex-girlfriend would have been into, given how you’ve described her.”

“She--well, like I said, I _can_ just break things.” And that is not something I ever agreed to bend on, even in Gehenna. I suppose Regan can’t have been too desperately interested in that approach or she would’ve talked me into it anyway.

Trey curls his hand into a loose fist, and presses his knuckles up against my throat. “I have an idea. No tying you down, if you’re not into that.” When I swallow, his fingers move against my skin. “Wait here just a minute.”

I wait on the bed while he goes to rummage through one of the dresser drawers dedicated to his clothes.

I’m not sure whether or not I would mind the tying up, as something to do because someone else was into it, and I wanted to indulge them. Or even if I might like it. It’s always been a gesture towards _I can do what I want to you and you can’t stop me,_ and refusing the bonds was a way of arguing back against that. I have my defenses. (And sometimes the cost of putting up those defenses is too high, but I _have_ them, all the same.)

“Would you get on your hands and knees?” Trey asks that so nicely, like he’d ask me to pass the butter or grab him a beer while I’m already at the fridge getting one for myself.

“Hey, if you’re sure you’re more into this than the theoretical board games in the apartment...” I probably talk too much. And I do get on my hands and knees, and try not to feel...silly. Defenseless. Like maybe I should say _no_ to one of these requests, to prove that I can. (To find out if I can.)

And maybe I just want to find out what he has in mind.

Trey steps up onto the bed, the mattress flexing away from me under him as he walks back to me. “I like this belt,” he says, “so if you _don’t_ find this much fun, give me a sign, okay? I can’t replace it in this country very easily.” He crouches down beside me, the belt in question in hand--it looks like any other damn leather belt out there, and I could not identify it as some sort of fancy import out of a lineup--and slides the end through the buckle. “Tilt your chin up just a little? Thanks.”

It’s not a surprise, exactly, when he settles the loop over my head and around my neck. Or when he pulls the strap back, not uncomfortably tight, just...close to the skin. Leather against skin is nothing like skin against skin, and when he slides the belt around to lay the buckle at the nape of my neck, the strap behind me, the movement against those bite marks does nothing at all except feel like something slipping along faint bruises.

He really does know how this works. How all sorts of things work, and probably I should say something to show that I’m fine, it’s not like I’m speechless or overwhelmed or anything, this is just a continuing part of this conversation we’re having, but nothing is coming to mind. Nothing to say that I want to say, exactly.

“Hold right there,” Trey says, which is not a request, but comes across as one anyway. He drags one hand down my spine, fingers running on each side of those bones, while his other hand rests at my neck. Right above that buckle, the strap in his hand so that the loose end of it flicks against my skin whenever his hand shifts slightly. “You should see how you look now. Right here like this.”

I should have something to say to that. And all I do is swallow against the loop of the belt, and think about Regan shoving me up against a wall, her hand on my throat.

He is not bothering with trying out fingers first, the way Julie did. But then, he’s remembered to bring out the lube. The one hand at my neck, and the other nudging my legs a little further apart, before he starts to slide in. It’s entirely different from anything. From what sex is like with Ash or Zhune or Julie, from what it felt like on my knees in front of him on that carpet.

Except it’s a little like sex with Regan, back when we had that year and some of working together. Like we could make that work. (I keep thinking I can make things work, that if I figure out the right way to deal with the problems the parts I like can last forever.) That arrogant tall vessel she had--that’s both of them, but I mean the male one--and how she never asked, and she never _had_ to ask.

And here I am on my hands and knees as Trey is so terribly, frustratingly slow, working his way in like I might break, and he keeps asking. Options remain open. That should be better, and maybe it is better, and in some ways it’s so much more terrifying when there’s a choice I have to make instead of a command for me to accept, when I’m complicit and culpable and tangled up in what’s going on as some sort of active participant in matters.

Active is also an option.

“Would you go _faster_ already,” I say, which came out less politely than I’d meant it to. “I am not--new to this concept.”

“Never thought you were,” Trey says, and there’s a burble of amusement in his voice. Not like he’s laughing at me, but like he was hoping I’d say something along those lines. “Faster, stronger, higher?”

“Faster, harder, more like you mean it, Trey.”

He slides to a complete stop, all the way in, the fucking bastard. “I do mean it,” he says. “I have been _wanting_ this since the first cigarette break we took together. I want to fuck you as hard as we both like and get you screaming my name when you come.”

I’m starting to recognize what it feels like when I’m blushing. Because it’s one thing to do that, and another to have someone _say_ it. “Which name would you prefer?”

That half second of hesitation says he wasn’t expecting that question. “Let’s stick with Trey,” he says. “Why confuse matters now?”

“Fine by me. Would you--” I don’t get to finish that sentence, because when he starts moving again he’s not being _slow_ anymore. Good. I don’t want to think about Regan, I want to be here and now and feeling this and not worrying, for as long as this takes, about what happens next.

For all that I asked for _faster and harder_ , I want this to take a while. Just so that I can not think.

He has a rhythm to the in and out, faster in and slower out, and I will not think about the way--

No. I am here and now, and with _this_ person, who I happen to like quite a lot right now, no matter how stupid that may be, and when he twists the strap of the belt around his hand again and it tightens at my throat, I can lean into that as if it’s exactly what I asked for. (Maybe it is. There are questions that aren’t asked out loud.) I can let my knees slide further apart across the sheets until a tangle of bedspread stops them, I can just make these sounds and not care what anyone thinks about them, I can be _part_ of this and it is not merely something that’s happening to me.

Trey pulls back further on the belt, and oh I can still _breathe_ , but now I can feel every breath in and out, scraping through my throat and out through my teeth. He says something encouraging, I think, except it’s not in English, and those language lessons have _not_ covered the vocabulary for this situation. (Hello, my name is Leo. Faster and harder, please.) Never mind. I’ll take it in the spirit it’s intended. At least dirty talk in Mandarin can’t make me turn red.

The belt pulls tighter and the demon at my back moves faster and what sounds I’m making are all broken now, gasping and hissing and I am not going to scream anything under these circumstances. There’s a graying around the edges of my vision. Can’t tell if it’s lack of oxygen or just...focus. Because I’m not looking at anything interesting, I do not care what’s in front of me, I care about what’s behind me and in me and around me and on me, that there is a level of _we_ in this.

There’s no telling, really. One time he moves against me and I whimper in pieces against the leather on my neck, one time again and I’m choking out what isn’t any sort of word in any language, too constrained to be a yell, and making a mess of the bed. Which was already some sort of mess, but will need another round at the laundry now. And then _he_ takes just a few moves further to get to where he’s going--I suspect he’s been making some effort to wait for me, on that--while my knees are shivering and I would rather like to lie down, now.

Which is what I do. Rolling over onto my side, one knee up to my chest, and he lies down beside me with an arm stretched over me. The belt’s gone loose at my neck now. At some point I need to find out if that’s left bruises on top of all the other marks, and if so, whether the collars on my shirts will cover them up.

Trey nuzzles up against the back of my head, until he’s nibbling on my ear. Like that’s just what you do, after sex. Stick around for a while and find out more about what your partner--what the person you’re with tastes like. And maybe there ought to be a question there, except I think we’re at one of those places where the question doesn’t have to be stated out loud. Which means I don’t have to answer it out loud, either.

Because this worked. Whatever it meant, and maybe it’s not supposed to _mean_ anything, I swear I used to be able to have sex without thinking this much about it. Maybe it’s just something we did, that we both liked. And that’s good enough for me.


	29. An Interlude, In Which I Maintain Pattern Recognition

By the time Yuliang came back to the apartment, Lanthano was on the couch again, with a Calabite’s head in his lap and a movie playing on the laptop they’d propped up on a stack of notebooks to get the angle right from the coffee table. If Leo had been human, Lanthano might have thought he’d fallen asleep; this form of watching the movie didn’t seem to involve having the eyes open very much. But it was a _Calabite_ in his lap, and the man apparently preferred to curl up there listening to the inane dialogue between explosions and only show any sign he was paying attention at all when he had some cutting remark to make about the quality of the movie.

The evening hadn’t gone exactly as he’d planned. But near enough. Better than he’d quite been willing to anticipate, if he had to pin down the intersection of anticipation and results.

His right leg was starting to go numb beneath Leo’s head, but he didn’t want to spoil the moment by asking him to move.

But then the door opened and three women spilled into the apartment, bright as if they carried the light from the hallway in with them. Yuliang at the front and in the center, at the tail end of some story she was telling the others. Two other women flanking her, young and pretty and delicate in exactly the way she preferred. He could smell the smoke and alcohol and traces of other people’s perfume from where he was sitting.

On his lap, Leo’s eyes flicked open, then slid shut again. No more reaction than that. And why should he react further? The threat level had been classified as low, and if Leo was anything like other clever Calabim of Lanthano’s experience--which was an interesting thought to set aside for some other time--then he was not much inclined to care about things that weren’t dangerous or immediately interesting or part of his work.

People said that Djinn were the quiet ones, because they didn’t care. But Calabim could have a type of quiet that had nothing to do with how much they spoke. That sense of measuring everything around them as _that can hurt me_ versus _I can hurt that_ , and judging future actions accordingly. (A pity that the stupider ones slotted everything they met into the latter.) At this precise moment, the Calabite on his lap was labeling those women--disappearing into the second bedroom, a wave of laughter trailing behind them like another brand of perfume--as not particularly dangerous, and labeling the Impudite on the couch as immediately interesting.

Lanthano felt that he was doing his work properly, if that were the case.

“Leo,” he said, during a break in dialogue while some high-speed chase happened on the screen, “which one of those two was Guo?”

“The one who was more drunk,” Leo said.

Lanthano attempted to classify either of the human women as _more_ drunk, based on thirty seconds of casual observation. “The tallest one?”

“No. The other one. With the red hair.” Leo snorted faintly. “Is that one of Julie’s preferences?”

More likely Guo’s, Lanthano suspected, and a recently acquired one at that. He brushed his fingers across the Calabite’s hair. “Not particularly. She likes pretty people in general.”

“If anyone really tried to drive like that,” Leo said, “they’d blow a tire.”

And so they talked about actual car chases for a while. One more bit of inconsequential conversation for the evening, and that was also a sign of a job well done. The topic didn’t matter. Only that the right person was curled up against him, head in his lap, as they spoke.


	30. In Which I Return To Old Habits Under Stress

The weather is that perfect blank Seattle gray on Thursday. No rain has fallen since last night, but the skies are a solid morose color from edge to edge, and the air is all clammy silence. I end up getting coffee with Guo, and we’re quiet all the way to the shop and back. Most people are, this morning, or a little louder than they should be. It’s cold enough to make me wish for a hat, and the baristas chatter too brightly about the possibility of incoming snow. Some weather system is lurching its way towards us for the weekend, and no one’s quite sure yet how it’ll resolve itself.

As I ended up playing driver for Zabina on Wednesday, on some unspecified errand that took us to Redmond and back, I wouldn’t mind some snow. There’s nowhere I urgently need to be for a few days. Tomorrow I get to deliver another status update on the reports I’m writing, and the update will not be “I am entirely finished, may I go now?” It will be something along the lines of “Here are sixty pages of excruciatingly detailed information and an outline for another forty, and I haven’t done this much writing under pressure since college, would you please tell me more exactly what you want? Or if this is it?”

Except that’s not what I’ll say. Or ask. Mostly I’m focusing on the work and not thinking about turning it in, or how this will be graded. I can’t do more than my best. (I don’t think Marquises give points for effort, or for showing your work.) And if I’m not finished by tomorrow, I’m just...not.

Zabina said this would take less than a month, and I’m looking at two and a half weeks, at the current rate. Three if I need to do significant revisions. That’s not an unreasonable amount of time for one job to take. It’s unusually long by my standards, but I’ve met Thieves who spend months casing places and prepping for the job before they actually pull of the heist. Zhune and I happen to specialize in a high-end version of smash-and-grab. Which is probably why sitting in one place this long sets me on edge. 

Zhune would tell me that I need to grow up and learn some patience. But he’s not here. So I do my best to fake some kind of dutiful concentration on work all morning, while the people in the apartment do their respective jobs. Trey disappears for an hour, and returns with dinner ingredients. Guo receives a detailed critique from Zabina about host choice, and leaves to find a better one. Julie and Zabina have another snippy discussion over who gets the car, which is never really about the damn car, then head out one after another, to do...whatever they do out there.

Julie is trying to coax someone from Technology into selling out team members, or the project he’s on, or maybe his supervisor. I’m not supposed to know this. But I can’t _not_ put pieces together, after a while. What Zabina is doing I don’t know, but I suspect she’s coming at the same information from another angle. It is, after all, a competition as much as it is a group project. And Guo’s not good enough at pretending to be anyone other than himself to be sent in unsupervised to soak Technology’s humans for information.

Trey’s been sorting out the details of the people involved in that Tech project for them, to feed Zabina and Julie the right targets. And now that he’s done with that... I’m not sure what he’s doing besides babysitting me and keeping an eye on company morale. Right this minute he’s sprawled over the couch on the other side of the coffee table, playing games on his tablet. This one appears to involve slingshotting birds at pigs in glass houses.

Computers have never made much sense to me.

“Trey? Have a minute to help me with something?”

He looks up from the tablet promptly. That’s oddly gratifying. “Sure. What is it?”

I spin my laptop around on the coffee table. “Take a look at some section--any of them, really--and tell me if I’m writing to the correct expected audience. Because I’m pretty sure you count as expected audience, here.”

“I’m not much of a literary critic,” he says, pulling the laptop towards him, “but I’ll see what I can do.” He offers me the tablet in return. “Want to explode some pigs?”

“Even aside from the danger of Animals objecting, you probably don’t want me touching your electronics.” I’m not sure how my phone got a crack in the screen, as I’ve been treating the damn thing like it’s made of spun sugar and worth more than gold, but there it is, and the case is starting to look like it’s been hit by a car. This, without me so much as dropping it on the carpet. I wonder how often Chaixin needs to replace her computers. She must have the most amazing off-site backups.

“The sooner it breaks down,” Trey says, “the sooner I get to buy a shinier replacement on the company dime. Have at.”

I try out a half dozen games while he’s reading, and don’t like any of them. I don’t like computers in general, and I certainly don’t like touch screens. You’d think it would make things easier, in some ways, to map what’s happening on the screen to moving a finger around on it, but it ends up in a tactile uncanny valley. It’s one thing to type, with that up-and-down of each hard physical key. The give and release means something, even if only a change of a few pixels on the screen, and there’s a tiny, significant weight to it. But on the tablet my fingers are sliding across glass that’s got no real drag to it, no _response_ that’s not sound or sight. It doesn’t even have the peculiar other-sense of the Symphony that you get when using resonance or Songs, where you can feel the world bend around you to accommodate what you’ve decided on. It makes me want to back away and start using manual typewriters, which is ridiculous, as I’m not sure I’ve ever even touched one.

“This is pretty good,” Trey says, while I’m trying to work out the interface for streaming video through this stupid device. “But some of it’s more precise than anyone likely to read it can practically use. You’re going to want to make the parts on measurements less exacting, or provide some sort of rule of thumb, or...summarize it, maybe?”

I push the tablet back towards him. “How can a report be _too_ precise? Did I get too technical with the vocabulary or something?”

“No, I mean--” Trey snaps his fingers, and points. “That chair at the table. How far apart are its legs?”

“On this side? Forty-eight centimeters, give or take a few. About five, six more in the other direction.”

“Yeah, Leo, that’s the problem. Most people can’t measure things at a glance that precisely. Especially at a distance, or when they’re distracted, or under stress. You need to give people some way to eyeball these things, and round the numbers where you can. Like in this--” He stops short, and his gaze moves away from me entirely. The expression of a man who just had a message dropped into his head via Celestial Tongues.

I sit back on my heels and wait for the explanation. Because that is rapidly becoming the expression of a man whose day has taken a sharp turn south.

“Someone grabbed Guo,” Trey says. He speaks sharp and short, like he’s breaking out the parts of the sentence that would just be cursing so that he can focus on the important parts. “Angels, maybe. They must have him pinned down somewhere, because he’s calling for help, and too panicked to be coherent about it. He said there’s two of them, and--” He looks to the front door. “Chaixin would handle it, but she’s not _here_ , and even if I call her, I don’t know how soon she can get back to the city. Julie has the car and all the muscle, but she’s off in Redmond and in the middle of...something.”

I’m already on my feet. “And Zabina too, and they’re in the kind of something that fucks over the project if they have to run out in the middle without good explanations, aren’t they?” I grab my bag, make sure my phone’s in there and on silent. “Call him back and see if you can get some sort of address or description of where they took him. How are you on Essence?”

“Full up now, but if he doesn’t have an address--”

I head for the kitchen. Zhune would have weapons, but I am entirely sure that Trey has none concealed on him, unless they’re artifacts so clever that he can pull them right out of thin air. Which seems unlikely. Not his style. “Ask first. If he doesn’t, you send him, ah, five or six Essence, and we’ll cue him on when to spend it. That way if we can get close, we’ll follow the disturbance.” I pull open a drawer and grab the three best knives to drop in my bag. “And tell him not to get out of that host no matter _what_ those people say or do. Inside, they can only make him uncomfortable. Once he pops out, they can shred him. I don’t suppose he’s a surprise bruiser in celestial form?” Unlikely with six Forces, but he’s certainly not all that clever or quick or strong, either.

“Not in the slightest,” Trey says. He’s frowning at me, like he has a problem with my plan--if he has a better one, he should really be _contributing_ right now--but then there’s a shiver of disturbance as he sends the message. “If there are two angels, how do _we_ take them?”

“Not head on. Come on. Time’s wasting.” I hesitate at the door. “Unless keeping the apartment guarded is more important than getting him back. I may be able to do this myself, but I’m not sure I can, and I’m only risking so much for that kid.”

Trey casts a quick look across the room, with all the laptops and tablets and books scattered about. “No,” he says, “though I will catch hell if someone breaks in while we’re out. I’ll just have to explain--” And then he has to shut up and run to catch up with me, because I see no reason to be _slow_ about getting out of here.

My instincts say to grab the first car I see, but I take us a block away to maintain some tiny fraction of separation between the safehouse and a crime report. Angels have a nasty habit of getting in close with police departments and their databases, and if Guo was unlucky enough to be jumped by someone like Judgment, we’re probably not getting him back alive.

And wonder of wonders, Trey gets an _address_ out of the kid. I have to revise my estimation of the Shedite’s intelligence slightly upward, if he managed that much under pressure. A street and a series of numbers, which means Trey gets to curse at Google Maps while I get the car started and pull away from the curb.

“Put on your seatbelt, Trey,” I tell him.

“You really think that matters right now?” He sounds testy. It is...fascinating. I’ve seen him stressed by overwork before, but he’s always so damn careful to maintain a certain level of sweetness and charm even as he’s responding to some pointed comment by a coworker waiting on his data. But right here and now he is genuinely _upset_ , and worried, and only doing a half competent job of staying pleasant despite the circumstances.

I don’t expect him to stay pleasant. This is the kind of situation where you’re allowed to be rude and say unreasonably snippy things at people you’re working with.

“Do you think it’ll help _anyone_ if you get flung through a windshield? And imagine what your coworkers would say to me if that happened while I was driving. What your _boss_ would say. Put on the fucking seatbelt. Do we have directions?”

Trey slams his seatbelt’s buckle into place, and starts giving me directions. I could probably find a better route on my own, given a map and a few minutes to look it over. The automated maps will have to suffice. And he’s a much better navigator than his phone is, giving me fair warning of when I need to swap lanes or prepare for a turn. The traffic’s light, which is good for keeping us moving and bad in that I don’t dare to break the speed limit by too much. We do not need a _traffic stop_ right now.

We have not quite hit suburbs, but are in the flatter parts of Seattle where houses have actual yards, by the time we’re nearing the address. A lazy commercial street of gas stations and coffee shops and vintage clothing and other junk that could fit into middle America almost as well, aside from all the damp, sends us onto a steep upward climb of poorly maintained road through mid-range residential houses that aren’t holding up well in the climate. Lousy attempts to make three-bedroom houses stand on hillsides that aren’t suited to them, and I spot two separate lots that have had to brace against the inevitable landslide threat of cut-and-fill building--why does anyone even _do_ that?--before we reach the top of the hill, where Guo’s address is half of a poorly maintained duplex with a spray of untended yard sloping away on three sides.

“That was our stop,” Trey says, as I drive past it.

“I know. And if we stop right in front of the door, someone inside will notice.” I take a breath, and try to remember that these are unusually trying times for the Impudite beside me. He doesn’t really do this kind of action thing. I swing around the next corner, and pull up to the curb. “There are two of them, and two of us, and Guo doesn’t count as a fighter. No offense meant, but _you_ don’t count as a fighter either, and it’s pretty much an honorary degree for me. So we do this the sneaky way, or it doesn’t happen. Throw some Essence at Guo. Tell him that he needs to hold out a little longer, and then we will get him out.” I drum my fingers on the steering wheel, trying to work out what I’m not thinking of. The parts of this plan that Zhune would know by heart, that Nik could have done in her sleep, that even Ferro would’ve followed my lead on, where these people won’t understand unless I make them explicit.

“How do we do this?” Trey asks.

Oh, yes. That part. “I go in there and get him. I’m still full up on Essence, but give me another one as soon as I sing up Form. This might get noisy. You stay in the car, at the wheel, and be ready to get us _out_ of here as soon as we arrive.” I take one knife from my bag, and turn it about in my hand. It’s made for the wrong sort of butchery, and I’m not much good at knives anyway. It’ll have to do. “If there’s a hell of a lot of noise and we _don’t_ get here shortly afterward, or anyone who’s not Guo comes running at you, drive away. Ditch the car. Call for real help. We’ll be in touch.”

“Leo, are you sure--”

“I’m doing a rescue mission on a Shedite I don’t even like on last-minute planning, of _course_ I’m not sure.” I kiss him on the cheek. “Less talking, more preparing for a stylish getaway.”

I call up Ethereal Form, and turn invisible. Trey passes me Essence to replace what I spent, and then I’m out of the car, running for the house at the top of the hill. Should’ve worn sneakers. Should’ve _bought_ decent sneakers for this vessel, since the last pair I was wearing wasn’t in great shape and I stopped wearing them around the apartment, with the looks Zabina was giving them, but it’s a bit late to worry about that, isn’t it?

The Song won’t wear off for several minutes yet. But I don’t know how long Guo has before they shake him out of the host, one way or another. When I reach the house, I make my way around the edge, leaning in towards windows and listening for voices.

They’re in the second half of the duplex. No one is shouting--maybe Guo _should_ be shrieking his head off, maybe he should’ve tried that earlier, but this isn’t the time to second-guess his decisions--but there’s a murmur of someone making a soothing, convincing case.

I can’t make out the words, but I know exactly that tone of voice. _If you cooperate with us we’ll stop hurting you. All you have to do is answer our questions, obey our commands, and this will go so much easier._ Been there, done that. (On both sides, though I’m not often the one giving that speech. It’s not often we’re trying to get information out of anyone Zhune can’t just tap on the hand and get full cooperation from.) There are pauses for responses that I can’t even hear that much of, and a second voice, less friendly, now and again.

I pick a window for another room, and put my hands up to it. Of all the many things I ought to be grateful for, this is a big one: the attunement I picked up from my first Prince, and that neither of the subsequent two took it away from me. There is a window, and then there _isn’t_ , just a silent fall of powdered glass and metal across the grass. And it didn’t make one whisper of disturbance for anyone inside to notice.

Crawling in through the window seems downright traditional. Getting back to my Magpie roots, here and now. (As if I had any.) I land in a bedroom that’s been slept in recently, with that lived-in odor and an unmade bed. Dirty laundry all over the floor. I pick my way through that. Remove the doorknob from the door so that I can nudge it open with two fingers without any sound of the latch releasing.

I follow the voices down the hall, down a half flight of stairs for the split level between the halves of this house. Thought it was a duplex, but someone knocked out the walls dividing the building long ago. By the time I reach the room--living room, den, something like that, done in 1970s dark brown shag and ancient furniture--I’ve practically circled back around. I cannot think much of the design of this building. I would hate to have to run away through here, not knowing the place well. Too many dead ends.

Though there’s never really such a thing as a dead end for a Calabite in possession of his wits.

I’m lucky: this room has an archway and a step down instead of a closed door. There’s a tall woman mostly supervising the discussion, such as it is, with a glance flicking towards the door and the shuttered windows now and again. I hold still and her gaze slides right past me and through me. I’m a shadow in shadows, and this house has lousy lighting to start with.

The second maybe-angel is a stocky man of about her height, and he’s crouched down in front of the human Guo’s wearing, hands on his knees. “All we have to do,” he’s saying, so patiently and gently, “is make your host go unconscious, and after a while, you’ll pop right out. We’re getting you out of there either way. And my friend here can heal any damage we do to that poor man you’re inside, so that’s won’t protect you either.”

Guo’s in one of those stodgy older men that Zabina prefers. And cowering on the floor, one leg splayed at an unpleasant angle that suggests it’s broken--well, there’s a reason I came in with this much Essence--but his jaw’s locked tight, and he’s not even answering them. The kid’s got some guts, I’ll give him that much credit.

I weigh the knife in my hand, and the options in my mind. This would be so much easier with Zhune at hand. This would be so much easier with Nik and Ferro, or, hell, with _Sean_ , on one of those bizarre occasions when we worked together. And Penny always had a gun at hand. (I suppose he would not be up for rescuing Shedim, though. On principle. Maybe if I told him about how sad and wobbly this one is.) What I have is a waiting car half a block away, ten Essence, and a knife suitable for chopping meat. Plus the Song that’s got me mostly invisible, a Song for messages that I can’t use reliably, and the Song Julie’s been teaching me, which is almost equally unreliable.

Of course, any Song will work properly if you know the basics and shove enough Essence into it. There’s a reason it’s the currency of Hell. Essence is what we use to make the Symphony bend to what we say should be so, when reality is currently saying otherwise.

“We shouldn’t waste any time--” begins the tall woman, and I hamstring her left leg with one nasty, hard cut. She collapses onto her knees, making a startled noise that’s a bad sign because it means she’s too disciplined to shout even when unexpectedly stabbed. Hell. I hope this isn’t _War_ , that’s even worse than Judgment. Those bastards don’t give up.

Both of those angels whirl towards where I just was, and where I am no longer. I left the knife in the taller angel’s leg. (That one I’m _sure_ is an angel, unless Guo somehow horribly got jumped by other demons instead, because there wasn’t a bit of disturbance there.) I destroy the floor beneath the feet of the one still standing, remember belatedly that this is going to convince them Fire’s around--well, they might’ve figured that out from the window anyway, and Fire has allies who might pick up that attunement. Never mind. They’re scrambling already to find me and hurt me and block the door so that I’m trapped.

I grab Guo by the wrist, and hope his host is lighter than it looks, because this Song has some mass limits and--well. Let’s see how far ten Essence gets us.

I drop every last drop of it into Celestial Motion, which to date I have only tried as a singalong with Julie, not actually executed, and the world lurches around us.

Guo squeaks, his right leg dragging across the grass. He’s cursing in another language--first guess, Mandarin, angry language of choice among local demons of my acquaintance--and I don’t have _time_ for this, because we only made it across the lawn and two houses past it, not all the way to the car. “If you don’t want to _die_ , hold onto me and run. _Hop_.”

He clutches towards my voice, grabs my side and my arm, manages to cling to my shoulder as I try to haul him towards the car. “I’m sorry, I’m _sorry_ \--”

“Shut up, Guo.”

He cuts off into complete silence, hobbling frantically along and making cut-off sounds of pain every time his broken leg hits the ground again. I would tell him to call Trey, but I don’t think he has any Essence left, and I sure don’t.

It is an agonizing thirty seconds of the slowest run I have ever made to get him to the corner of the block. Behind us, a door slams open. We are being _pursued_ , it’ll be seconds before they run around the house and spot us, but Trey flings open the door of the car and backs up several meters so that both of us can collapse into the back seat.

“Drive,” I tell Trey, “and drive like they are right behind us because they _are_.”

Could’ve said that more politely. Didn’t. I have to climb halfway over Guo to yank the door shut while the car’s already in motion, and three to one those bastards spotted the car, maybe the plates, before we whipped around another corner.

Trey’s a nervous driver at this speed, and Guo’s whimpering to himself. “Slow down,” I tell Trey, once we have several blocks between us. “No one’s behind us yet. Speed limit, but keep going this direction.”

“They’re know we’re going this way,” Trey points out, his voice tight and short again. This is, I believe, his voice for _I think your plan is flawed but I’m afraid to take charge of this mess._

Oh. Yes. I suppose I am in charge of this mess now. And responsible for what happens.

I’ll cope.

If I wasn’t _supposed_ to take charge of the situation, someone else should have done so first.

“When this Song wears off,” I say, “there’ll be a burst of disturbance from it. As soon as that happens, turn at the next possible point.” I lean forward between the front seats and dig out my bag, then my phone. “I’ll give you directions from there. Guo, deep breaths.”

“It doesn’t _matter_ , I’m not even _human_ , they broke my leg--”

I clap a hand on his shoulder, and squeeze. “Guo. Deep breaths. Really. You’re in a human host, and even in a vessel, it works the same way. Your body’s pumping a lot of adrenaline through your veins. You can’t help but feel jumpy from that, any more than you could help reacting to caffeine or alcohol in your blood. So you take slow, steady breaths. In. Hold it. Out. Wait. Then again. Just like that. It’ll help your host’s body settle down and stop addling you with chemicals. Give it a try. Can’t make things any worse, right?”

He nods, not quite in the right direction--no one in this car can see me, and I can barely even make out my own shadowy hands as I pull up a map on the phone--and starts trying to breathe more slowly.

If nothing else, it cuts back on the noise.

I lean back in the seat and take some deep, calming breaths myself. “Trey, do you know the local angels and demons well enough to be able to identify who those people were from a description?”

“Not unless they work for--people related to the project,” Trey says, with a stumble in the center where he remembers that I’m not supposed to know they’re fucking with Technology. “Guo, did it seem like they knew who you were?”

Guo shakes his head, which Trey can’t see from the driver’s seat. “They said they were angels. Not like Habbalite-types, but like, from the Host, they wanted me out of this body. Like they cared more about some _human_ than anything else.” He sounds like he’s fighting back tears, and I slide an arm around him like I would’ve with Katherine.

And end up with an unexpected full-body cling from the Shedite, who’s still wearing a host bigger than I am. This is not the most dignified position I’ve been in this week.

“That’s angels for you. Awfully big into torture for the supposed forces of goodness and light.” I give him an awkward sort of pat on the shoulder, and let him cling. “Trey, can you fix this leg, once we stop?”

“No. Julie could. Or Chaixin, once she gets back, but that won’t be for--hours. At least. I should report in.”

“Good point. Let her know it’s under control.”

Trey lets out a startled laugh. “This is _under control_?”

“Is anyone dead? Or missing a Force? Are the angels shooting at us right now? No. It’s under control. I’ve been in much worse situations than this.” If anything, I feel cheerier than I have in days. Maybe weeks. This is straightforward and interesting and is entirely not my fault. “We don’t have a tail. Traffic’s too light to hide one, I’d notice if they were chasing in celestial form. If they have a Kyriotate overhead, they can’t keep up with these speeds for long.” The Song peels off me with a rattle of disturbance, and I drag an arm free of Guo so I can take a look at my phone. “Take the next left.”

It takes about five minutes of directions before Trey twigs to where we’re pointed. “Leo, do you realize we’re driving into--”

“Redmond? Yes.” Since he doesn’t look happy about it, I take a moment to work out my own reasoning so that I can explain it to him. These decisions are halfway to instinct by now. “Two angels hunting for a Shedite in this city, likely with a description of this car, will be watching for reports of stolen--or abandoned--vehicles. And they’ll start their search wherever we leave this.” I pat Guo on the shoulder as he clings to me even harder. “So do we want to head anywhere near home? No.”

“But there are safer places than this,” Trey says, careful and patient. Poor man’s doing his best, but this is clearly not what he’s been doing at work for the last...however many decades he’s been alive. My best guess so far is between seven and twelve. “Technology’s all over this place.”

“Exactly. So what do the angels conclude? That they caught some Shedite of Technology, or ally thereof, and he ran straight back home. If they’re locals, they’re not likely to go set the Tether on fire. Makes the war run too hot right where they’re trying to live. If they’re _not_ locals, then they probably know even less about the demonic composition around here. Same conclusion reached, because everyone knows about that Tether. Either way, what they’re _not_ doing is checking the rest of the city for stray Shedim of Theft.”

“I’m not stray,” Guo says, voice muffled against the sleeve of my jacket. “I’ve got a _job_ , I was doing what I was supposed to. I didn’t do anything to them!”

“They’re angels,” I say. “Most of them hate us just for existing. Not much you can do about that except stay out of their way, and sometimes that’s not possible.” I ruffle his hair, and try not to hate myself for it, because he slumps against me with some of that tension in his body draining out again. He needs hugs, and what kind of Shedite does that make him? I’ve only met one who was sadder, and at least Eder had his life in a sort of grim, depressed order. “Just look at what happened to me the other day. I’ve been dodging angels almost my entire life, and I still ran right into one. It happens to most everyone eventually. You called the right people for help, and you stayed in your host, and you kept focused when it was time to run. That was _good work_.”

“They still know what I look like,” Guo says.

“No, they know what _this_ host looks like. We’re going to get you swapped soon. Maybe into someone lighter this time, huh?” This is Trey’s job that I’m doing right here, but I’m making him drive, so I guess it balances out.

“I could pick a little kid,” Guo says tentatively. “They’re easy to get into.”

“No.” I have to smooth out my voice to keep that from sounding too harsh. “Not the little ones, Guo. People _notice_ when children go missing, and especially if they went missing by walking away with two strange men. They can’t drive, and people ask questions if they go anywhere alone. Stick to the adults. Got it?” He nods quickly at me. “Good. You’re doing fine. How are you feeling?”

“Leg hurts.” He slides a glance towards Trey in the driver seat, then back to me. “I can’t walk around on this. People will ask and it hurts and people will notice and I don’t know what to say to them!”

There’s a busy coffee shop to our right, at an intersection with bus stops on all sides and people passing through the doors constantly even this late in the morning. “Trey, swing around that next corner, and find us a quiet place to park. Doesn’t have to be legal, just out of view for few minutes.”

“I thought we were going to Redmond,” Trey says, but he makes the turn.

“We are. But right now these people have two ways to track us, so let’s confuse the issue.” I work on prying Guo’s fingers off me while Trey finds an office-attached parking garage to slide into. No one’s moving in or out right now, and we can get five minutes idling just inside at the barrier we don’t have a code to get past. (It’d be trivial to get through it, but that’s not the point.) “Do you have a phone on this host, wallet, anything like that?”

“Yes?”

“Give me those.” I take them from his fumbling grasp, and add a watch and wedding ring to the collection. “Go back to that coffee shop we just passed. Tell people you were attacked and robbed by a man and a woman. Describe them briefly; height, race, hair color, that kind of thing. And then jump into another host and come back here. Someone who doesn’t look too much like _this_ host.”

“I’m no good at lying, or pretending to be someone else!”

“That’s fine, Guo, because you’re not pretending. You’re telling the truth. Two people attacked you. They hurt your leg. Your phone and wallet are gone, you don’t know what to do, you’re very upset. And then you _leave_ , and your host can try to explain the rest. He’s not going to be very clear on the details either, so it should come across as shock.”

“I can’t do it,” Guo says. A glance shot at Trey, who’s just watching this conversation silently from the driver’s seat now that we’re parked. “I can’t, I can’t go out there _alone_ , what if they’re right behind us? What if they catch me again?”

“Trey, could you pass Guo some Essence?” I flick a smile of thanks at the Impudite, and get an uncertain one in return. Oh, but I suspect we’re going to have a conversation about this later. “You’re going to be fine, Guo. You know why? Because we’re right here. We came to get you once. If anything happens, you can call, and we’ll come get you again. If you take too long, we’ll come find you.”

“Can’t you come with me?”

“We don’t want to connect our vessels with this host. No one’s gotten close enough to make that connection yet. And if either of us swaps vessels, that’d make disturbance. We don’t want that either.” I grab both his shoulders, and turn him to face me. “You were hired for a reason, right? The Marquis doesn’t take _every_ Shedite she runs into. So we know you’re good at a few things.” He nods hesitantly at me. “And you’re part of the company. So _you_ know that you can trust people to come rescue you if anything happens.” The nod is even more hesitant this time. “Trey wouldn’t abandon you, would he?” This shake of the head is more emphatic. “And I’m right here with him, so _neither will I_. Now go get a new host, and come back here. You can do this. And no matter what happens, we’ll take care of you. I promise.”

“You’re sure--”

“I’m sure you can do it,” I say, though that’s not what he was going to ask about. “Go on. We’ll be waiting for you right here.”

I get out of the car with him, to support him on that leg for a few feet. And as soon as he lurches nervously off, I drop everything we took from his host’s pockets into a trash can at the garage.

When I get back in the car, I take the front seat. Trey watches me silently, and I notice for the first time how white his knuckles are on the steering wheel. Even while we’re parked.

“I could give you a pep talk too,” I tell him, “if you think it would help.”

He just stares at me for a moment. And then breaks into a wry smile, which is a relief. I was starting to worry. “What would you have done if I _hadn’t_ agreed to everything you told me to do during this trip?”

“Negotiated,” I say promptly. “That’s what usually happens when my partner and I have a disagreement about how to execute a plan. But it would’ve been a pretty damn fast negotiation, because I didn’t know how much time we had to work with.”

“You order your partner around like this?”

“They were suggestions! Not orders. If you’d disagreed... we would’ve worked something out.” I want to tilt the seat back and close my eyes and take some deep, calming breaths myself for a while, but instead I watch the entrance for signs of Guo, and listen for signs of trouble. “He lets me do some of the planning. I’m smarter than he is. He’s got a lot more experience. Kinda balances out.”

“Wouldn’t have guessed,” Trey says, which is an odd comment, given he’s met Zhune all of once. That I know of. Come to think of it, he could well have known Zhune and Henry decades ago, and wouldn’t that make things complicated. I hadn’t thought to ask any of these people if they knew Zhune, first because I didn’t want to talk to them about anything, and then because there didn’t seem like any reason to bring it up.

Besides, what would I get out of that? Knowing more about Zhune’s past is sometimes illuminating, but it doesn’t change anything. There is a way Zhune’s relationships with his partners plays out every damn time, and I don’t believe that knowing its trajectory makes it any less inevitable for me. 

A skinny young man in even skinnier jeans jogs up to the car, and I reach back to open the door for Guo. That fashion is an outright epidemic in this city, despite the weather. “Get inside. You must be freezing in that jacket. What kind of idiot runs out on a day like this in a sweater like that?”

“He thought he’d look sexier this way,” Guo says, with a shrug for the vagaries of human behavior. “People are calling the police and an ambulance for that man.”

“Good.” And I don’t have to tell Trey it’s time to go, because he’s already pulling out of the garage. “We’ll ditch the car in Redmond, pick up a new one, and get back home in time for lunch.”

I keep an eye on the skies for watchers through the whole process, but we’re free and clear.


	31. In Which I Say The Right Things

Back at the apartment, the door is still locked and nothing seems to be missing. Which does not keep anyone’s healthy defensive paranoia from suggesting all the ways that could be an illusion of safety, with god knows what having happened while we were out, but Trey doesn’t say a thing about it and neither do the rest of us. Where “the rest of us” is me and Guo. Now that the crisis is more or less over, I’m trying to let Trey take the lead. It was not polite or clever of me to take charge, in an office politics sense, even if it seemed necessary at the time.

Still. Wouldn’t have looked good to anyone to misplace the intern. And if I feel like I’m more than earning my theoretical pay at this point, that Song I got from Julie also makes it feel like I’m getting something out of all this. I like having an emergency escape plan, even if it’s the kind that’ll take an uncomfortable sum of Essence to work it reliably.

Trey locks the door behind us again, which isn’t good for anything but making people feel better. “If everyone could just _stay here_ until I have new instructions,” he says, “that would be...appreciated.”

I sit down on the couch. “We can do that.”

“Great. Just...yes. Do that. Thank you.” He fusses at his phone, and I suspect he’s trying to text some reassuring but accurate summary of events to three different people at once. “You’re sure no one followed us?”

“Anyone who kept up with us through that many twists is much more of an expert than I can see them assigning to a random Shedite kidnapping.” Maybe not more than they’d send to chase a Shedite who someone bothered to come rescue, because that implies something bigger is going on. In my admittedly limited experience, Shedim who get jumped by angels are usually written off as shrinkage and replaced by the next kid eager for corporeal work. It’s not like they have any attached vessels to make them more valuable than their skills, and if they don’t have enough skills to keep themselves safe, well. No great loss. But I’m not going to mention that possibility to Trey and Guo, because it would make both of them worry. If it’s relevant, the Marquis will think about it and do something about it.

Guo pulls open the fridge to stare into it for a long moment. He looks a little off model in his current host; he doesn’t usually pick anyone so young as this man, who can’t be far into his twenties, if he’s reached them at all. But it’s still him inside, enough so that I could almost imagine he’s swapping vessels instead of wearing different humans. If he wants to stay alive while doing corporeal work, he needs to learn how to disguise that better. Angels are good at noticing humans acting oddly.

He slams the fridge shut, and brings a beer to Trey, holding it out like some sort of offering. And what he gets is a reassuring smile, and the offering accepted, though I don’t think Trey’s going to do much drinking until he’s acquired those instructions he’s asking for. From Julie, from Zabina... No, I think he’s asking the Marquis directly.

You would think that someone with a title that impressive wouldn’t do quite this much hands-on management. All we did was restore the status quo, with a little stabbing and a lot of Essence spent to get that done. But everyone in this group seems to turn to her the instant they’re not sure about something. Maybe she’s just into micromanagement? I couldn’t say. It’s not my problem.

Guo brings the second beer to me. Which I don’t really want at eleven in the morning, but I accept it to be nice. The kid has had a rough morning. I wonder if that was his first round of corporeal interrogation. It’s not the same as experiencing that in Hell. Easier to deal with in some ways, worse in others. He’s still shaky over it.

He sits down beside me, and rests his head on my shoulder like that is a perfectly normal thing to do, and I am too damn surprised to tell him to knock it off, or move out of the way, until it’s been a second or two and it would be _rude_ to do anything. So I sit there and sip politely at my beer and watch Trey have a terse phone conversation in the same language I continue to not know well enough.

Though Zabina gave me the lessons for learning it. Not at the point when I was thinking I ought to learn, but beforehand, knowing I would have the need later. I’m not sure if that is a quintessentially Lilim move, or a very careful way of giving out presents without making me worry about hooks. It may well be both. She’s a dangerous demon, in her own particular way, and it’s a type of dangerous I haven’t had to deal with often before. I should think about that, when I’m less distracted.

“I need to go,” Trey says, shoving his phone into a pocket. He looks over the two of us on a couch. “If you could just...stay here?” He’s one more level of stress away from adding a desperate _Please?_ to that, and I’m not cruel enough to make him say it out loud.

“Of course. We’ll watch the place. No heading out until you get back, even if Julie and Zabina get in. Just so you don’t have to worry about us.”

“Thanks. Great.” He makes a little _Please stay_ motion with his hands towards us, and then dashes for the door. Off to meet up with one of the others, though I couldn’t say which.

Maybe I should be worried about the fact that he’s running to get his side of the story in first. But I can’t bring myself to be that suspicious of him. If he wants to take credit, he’s more than welcome to it. He was the one more or less in charge, so he would’ve had to take the blame if it went badly, much as Julie stepped up to take responsibility with that incident at Pike Place.

And, hell. I like him too much to distrust him. That’s a terrible decision on my part. I should know better. I’ve been _taught_ better, in explicit lessons and in experience. People I like have fucked me over on several distinct occasions.

But there’s not a lot of risk here, and. And. And I _do_ like him, and sometimes I’m an idiot about these things.

I am not sure where on the scale between idiot and clever Calabite letting a Shedite cuddle up against me is located. Probably nearer the first than the second.

When I slide casually away towards the edge of the couch, he follows me. I pull my feet up onto the cushions just to get some knees between me and him, because I refuse to end up with a wide-eyed Shedite in my lap. (Maybe he should be taking children as hosts. They’d fit his emotional stability. Katherine was better at coping with trauma than he was, at least after some practice.) “How are you holding up?”

“It’s easier in this host,” Guo says. He folds his arms over my knees, and props his chin there. That. Was not what I had in mind. “Nothing hurts, and he’s just...feeling fine. Not like when I jump into someone who’s high, just _fine_. He was having a good day when I got there, even if it was too cold.”

“That’s nice,” I say. Maybe if I keep sending him to the kitchen to get me more beer--no, wait, getting drunk around the clingy Shedite is a _bad plan_ , let’s not go with that one. “Good choice. And you can pick out one that other people like once some more time has passed.”

“What kind do you like?” He chirps out the question in a passable imitation of Julie’s way of delivering casual questions, though he doesn’t have anything like the facial expression or body language down to pull that off.

“Doesn’t matter much to me, Guo. Since you’re running errands for the others, you should listen to what they tell you about host choice.”

“You could call me Gee,” he says. “If you wanted to. Like Julie does.”

“Because I’m not pronouncing your name right?”

He hesitates at that, and then tries on a smile. It comes across as more nervous than friendly. “You don’t have it exactly right, but you’re pretty close. You can call me whichever. What kind of hosts would you tell me to take? If you were picking.”

“The ones that are useful for the job. Depends on the job, in that case.” And if I don’t come up with a new line of conversation soon, this is going to become unbearably awkward. “Mind if I ask you about something?”

“Sure! I mean. Ask anything.” He nestles his chin down on his arms and my knees, staring at me with enormous eyes. “Except, there is, I’m not supposed to talk about some kinds of work things, it’s not that we don’t _trust_ you or anything, it’s just procedure--”

“Don’t worry. I wouldn’t ask about stuff like that. Wouldn’t be fair to you.” I put my beer down on the floor so that I don’t keep absently sipping from it. One beer can’t do much to me, but even so. Best to keep my wits around me. “How did you end up working for the Marquis?”

“Oh. That’s. It’s not much of a story. Some things happened.” His eyes drop--to my chest, I suppose--and he wiggles around on the couch. Up onto my feet, leaning harder against me, even as he won’t meet my eyes. “It’s nothing like Julie’s story, hers is great. They _stole_ her.”

“If you don’t want to talk about it, don’t worry. I was just curious.” And what other topics of conversation are there between the two of us? Maybe I could quiz him on his literature experiences lately. Talk about metaphor and theme and characterization, see if that holds us until someone arrives or I can make some excuse about needing to do work.

“No,” Guo says, “it’s _fine_ , it’s all from years and years ago.” He pulls his feet up to the couch as well, and ends up leaning against my legs, arms wrapped around his own knees. “There was this, uh, see, I was in Stygia, and I was...not exactly with Factions, except I meant to be, because I’d just gotten to be a proper demon, turning into a Shedite, because everyone told me that was best for Factions, that Prince likes them the most because they’re like him, and because it’s so easy to send us downstairs, not needing vessels, and being able to get things out of heads. You don’t even have to push people around from the outside, you can do it from right inside them, knowing how they would do it anyway. So that’s what I was going to be.”

“Makes sense,” I say. If I’d fledged from some demonling, instead of being made as I am, maybe I would’ve chosen this same Band purely out of admiration for Belial. I had a lot of that when I was younger and more naive.

“Anyway,” Guo says. His speech is all a series of rushed sentences and pauses, as if he’s not sure how to put a story together. “There was. Some other people like me that I met because--I didn’t know them at first, but someone older brought us together, he was a Habbalite, he said he had a job for us and he’d take us all down to Earth and we’d learn how to do things on the corporeal, we just had to do what he said and we’d get better at it and then when we talked to our Prince finally we’d be able to show that we knew things and we were ready and it sounded good, it did! It made sense, and he was older than us, he knew all sorts of things.”

He swallows, and drags his gaze up to look me in the eyes. “What happened,” he says, artificially bright and with an unsteady voice, “is there were three of us, Shedim, all together working for him, and it was really good, it was _really_ good for a while. We did what he said and got to play around and we, we liked each other, we were all new to this kind of thing, and we were learning things and helping with a big important project, and then other people showed up and he wasn’t supposed to take us, or we weren’t supposed to go with him, I don’t know, we didn’t see him again, but they took the three of us back to Stygia and told us that it was our fault. For not following the rules.”

“The rules no one told you.”

He nods sharply. “But it doesn’t matter. You’re supposed to _know_ , even if they don’t tell you. That. It was our own fault for being so stupid, for thinking it was that easy, it’s not _easy_ to do anything important. And they put us all together in this, this cage and said that they could turn us all over to the Game and we’d all be executed, that we deserved that. But since we were, uh, young and stupid, maybe they’d be _nice_ , just this once. And make it one person’s fault. So it could be that person’s fault that everything went wrong, and they’d pull that one apart in front of everyone, at one of those crowds, you know, how they have those rallies and then sometimes there are trials or debates and then at the end things happen, and it’d be like that. For us. They said that they’d be _fair_ , so we should vote on it. On who should be the one who was wrong, so everyone else could go.”

He has gone terribly pale, in a host that doesn’t look any good on. I want to say something like _You don’t have to tell me,_ but I think at this point it would hurt him more. To sound like I don’t even care about his story. I put a hand on his shoulder, and wait for him to keep going.

“So I told the other two I had a plan,” he says, his voice so very thin now. “Since we were friends. Since we did everything together. I said that we could all just...vote for nobody. They couldn’t make us vote for each other. And maybe they could send us all to the Game, but probably if they meant to do that they would have already, and if we stuck together, if we wouldn’t vote for anyone, they...they would be impressed, or think that we were clever, I don’t _know_ , it made sense then. When I had the plan. And the other two said we would do that, that it made sense, and they brought us in front of all those people in that room and they showed the votes, and my friends both voted for me and everyone laughed because I was so stupid that I thought they wouldn’t, and then they had my friends. Hurt me. To take me apart.”

He scrubs his eyes with the back of his arm. I have never seen a Shedite crying before. I wasn’t aware they could.

“But Lanthano was there,” he says, low and fierce, “he was there and he saw it, and he called for the Marquis, and then Chaixin came and made them stop before I was entirely in pieces. And she said that she’d take me. That she could use someone who would stick together with their friends and not betray them. And she did. I only had four Forces. I can’t remember why I thought it was a, a good plan, I thought it was so smart, and now I don’t remember why. But she brought me back to her place, and she said that if I was always loyal, to her and her people, they’d be just as loyal back, and no one would ever sell me out. And. You came for me. You and Lanthano came for me, even though I can’t do much of anything, and I don’t even have seven Forces all back together yet, and I _know_ you don’t like me, but you came to save me anyway.”

I do not know what to say. _It’s part of the job_ and _I do like you, really_ are equally untrue in their own ways. And no matter what he does to the humans he wears, I can’t bear to hurt him further right now.

Sometimes, I’m not very good at being a demon. Except maybe I’m okay at being the sort of demon Trey is, even if it’s not what I’m supposed to be.

So I give the damn kid a hug, and let him shiver against my chest, and I say, I don’t know, soothing things, nothing in particular. How it’s okay and of course his coworkers and his boss won’t abandon him, he can trust them, not to worry about it so much, doesn’t this just go to prove he was right to trust his friends? He just had to find the right ones.

Maybe that’s a bunch of lies, too. I don’t know. It’d be nice to think that they will be worth his trust. Someone ought to be. Like he should be rewarded, somehow, for trying that one time to be faithful and true to people who didn’t deserve that effort.

It’s far too long before Julie gets back. She’s had enough of the news to run right across the room and tell Guo all the right things, and pet him and hug him and let me detach while she delivers the company lines. Maybe she even means what she says.

I tell them I need a cigarette break, and get the hell out of that room. It’s easier when it’s just stabbing people and running away.


	32. In Which The Management Of This Organization Does Not Map Accurately To My Previous Experiences Of Hierarchical Standards Within Hell

Here’s a game to play whenever in a group of demons. (Or celestials, for that matter, if you’re in a mixed group that’s getting along politely enough that you’re bored and need to amuse yourself.) When someone’s walking towards the group from out of sight, pay attention to who notices the sound first. That’s who’s going to be hearing disturbance first as well, most of the time. Even if disturbance isn’t a _sound_ , in the sense of sound waves that you can measure, people who are Aware--which is every celestial right off--pick up on it about the way they do ordinary sounds.

I hear the footsteps in the hallway first. But then, I’ve been listening for them. A few seconds later, Zabina’s gaze moves from her computer screen to the door. Julie pauses in her conversation with Guo just before the doorknob turns, and when the door opens, that’s when the Shedite finally realizes someone’s coming.

Trey I expected. The Marquis following him, no. It’s odd to realize that his vessel is taller than hers; she seems taller than that body she wears, by means of presence and power.

Odder still to have her standing in the living room. There is no reason she shouldn’t, as she controls this place as completely as the apartment she took over across the hall. And I’ve seen the Boss walk into stranger places. But it _is_ odd, and sets me on edge. To the edge of where I’m seated, then to my feet when I realize everyone else is standing. Zabina beside her place at the table, Julie where she and Guo were speaking, Trey at the doorway, but we are all at attention until told to be otherwise when the Marquis is in our presence. (Or when we’re in her presence.) She might as well be the Boss himself for the way we are all wholly intent on her and anything she might say to us.

She surveys us briefly. One moment of examination for each of her employees, temporary or otherwise, ending with the Shedite. Who stands there with his hands clenched up tight, eyes wide.

“Guo,” she says. And he darts in to drop to his knees in front of her, his words a cascade of explanation or apology or both at once. Even if I knew the language better--and I’ve been trying to get through more of those lessons--I wouldn’t be able to follow what he’s saying at this speed. 

He stares at the floor as he speaks, hands gripping each other. I have been that terrified in the presence of my superiors before, and perhaps more so, but I’ve long known better than to look that way. (Maybe it’s only Habbalah who take signs of fear as a reason to be harsher, but I wouldn’t bet on it.) There’s that saying--Captain Savas was particularly fond of it--about giving someone enough rope to hang themselves.

The kid runs out of words, and takes a deep breath. He risks a look upward, at the Marquis’s face. Her expression hasn’t changed since she entered the room.

“You did well enough,” she says in Helltongue. “We’ll discuss it later.” She holds out both hands to him, and helps him back to his feet. A hand through his hair to sort it back into place, a tug on his coat to set its lapels back in order. 

When she’s finished with him, he’s standing up straighter than before. And he’s not afraid of her. He found that _reassuring_ , and I think the poor fool trusts her through and through.

Of course, he wasn’t the one foolish enough to take charge during a crisis. She crooks two fingers at me, and leaves the apartment.

I’m glad that Trey comes along.

The third time into her office here, I’m not half so nervous as I ought to be. I have seen her annoyed before, and I have been in a nearby room when she was outright angry--I heard the disturbance from that one--but on those occasions my partner was there as defense from and focus for whatever wrath was at hand. No one who works for Valefor is allowed to hurt _Zhune_ too badly. This time there’s only a slim chance she’ll be angry about anything I’ve done lately, and yet I _ought_ to be keeping the possibility in mind. Complacency around powerful demons is a good way to end up dead.

I’ve never actually pinpointed what to do around powerful demons that will reliably keep a person from ending up dead. I’m just saying, complacency is definitely not it.

Trey and I end up lined up in front of her desk--well, table--as she sits down and deals with something on the monitors there. She seems like the sort of person who would have ended up in Technology if they took Calabim, which probably goes a long way towards explaining her hostility towards them, even aside from other events.

I’m standing at parade rest again. One of these days, the habits that the War beat into me will wear off, but I suspect I’ll still fall into them now and again when under stress. It took me years of deliberate work to learn to slouch and sprawl when I wanted to look a certain type of confidently disdainful, after all the habits of good posture that I learned when I was young.

The Marquis leaves off the study of her monitors can look at me. I haven’t learned yet how to interpret any of these examinations. It’s not that her expression is unreadable, but that it’s written in a different language than any I’ve learned. Trey, I think, can interpret it perfectly well. And he’s not nervous in the slightest, but I’m not sure how much he’s on my side right now.

“My employees watch out for each other,” she says to me. Not to the both of us. This, Trey already knows. “I do not expect the same from contractors. Nor I would have wished to lose Guo. Your work today has been...” She makes a tiny motion with her fingers that I think I’ve seen from Zabina before. “Above and beyond requirements.”

She’s quiet for a moment, still watching me, but if there’s an answer expected, I can’t figure out what it’s supposed to be.

“You are more adept at retrieval missions than asking for rewards,” she says, and that is dry as bone. Her gaze shifts fractionally, to the Impudite beside me. “Take him home and pick an appropriate one from the vault.”

“From here, or further out?” Trey asks.

“The perimeter is clear,” says the Marquis.

He ducks his head to her, and then turns a brilliant smile in my direction. “Follow me.”

#

The odd thing, really, is that I’m not sure I’ve ever followed someone to Hell before. Zhune and I use the Chicago Tether on our rare trips to Stygia--the ones that don’t involve vessel loss, anyway--and for most of my life I just didn’t have the option. Maybe I could’ve worked past my Discord to run around like that, but it was never worth the Essence to try.

It’s as instinctive as walking and breathing. Trey ascends to Hell, and when I drop my vessel to follow, his path through the Symphony is like an arrow pointing the way, bright and clear as fresh asphalt.

There is a labyrinth of dark corners and sudden pitfalls where Theft keeps its demons’ Hearts. When I arrive in Hell, we’re not there. It’s a bright, round room with a marble floor and Hearts set in two rows of tidy niches along the walls. Overhead, an arched ceiling has been painted with a night sky, dragons half-visible behind clouds.

“Home, sweet home,” Trey says, with a grin and a one-shouldered shrug for me. He’s dressed as I saw him last, mostly in black and entirely in form-hugging clothing I cannot afford in Hell’s economy. He spreads out his wings briefly, then lets them settle down at his back. “Nice, isn’t it? We had it redone about fifty years back. Some painter that Chaixin liked ended up in Hell, and there was this whole mess involved in swiping him from where he was sent. So once we got him back, she had him paint up the ceiling here, and a lot of other ceilings. Some walls, too. I think he’s rented out to some construction company in Shal-Mari these days.”

“These are the Hearts for everyone who works for the Marquis?” I’m not sure if there are more or less than I expected. I knew she had enough people to pull four over a single project. What I wasn’t expecting was that she’d be allowed to keep these Hearts all in here. Most Princes keep a close eye on how these things are stored, for security reasons. I wouldn’t dare try to _move_ mine.

“Everyone who has one. People who don’t do corporeal work sometimes don’t have a Heart to store anywhere. And hers is somewhere else.” 

Presumably where Valefor can keep an eye on it. The aristocracy of Hell has its exciting political moves, and defections aren’t exactly unheard of.

Trey drags his hands through his hair, neatly avoiding his horns. “I almost thought I misremembered, but you really don’t look like that vessel. Did your first vessel look more like this?”

“Not much more. And it was too short, besides.” I shove my hands in the pockets of my jacket, and this time, there’s no inconvenient package that I wasn’t expecting stashed in there. Not yet. “So this is home?”

“One version of home. I don’t spend as much time here as I do on the corporeal, but Roles come and go. This place sticks around.” He loops an arm into mine, right up close like that’s how we always do it. (Like we’ve known each other for long enough to there be an “always” about anything between us.) “I’ll show you my office, since I ought to take care of a few things there. Then we can hit the vault.”

There is no reason _not_ to follow him out of the Heart room, arm in arm. I wonder if this means I’m forgiven for running over his authority back during Guo’s rescue. With a Balseraph, they’d either have rewritten the whole story in their head to have been in charge all along, or be holding a nasty grudge. That whole Band is so amazingly touchy about hierarchy, and Habbalah are just as bad. And those are the Bands I know how to deal with, in a general sense. Impudites? I almost never work with Impudites. Those are Zhune’s type of friends. Cheerful people who smile at you and swear they don’t mind whatever happened while plotting a subtle revenge.

The hallway outside has more marble floors, and the walls are covered in murals. Landscape paintings for the most part, mountains and forests and sweeping cliff vistas. There are no human or demon figures in any of the paintings, though dragons and unicorns and phoenixes, and a few mythological creatures I can’t name, appear here and there, always partially hidden by their surroundings. Maybe if I’d taken any art history classes I would be able to name the style or explain the message the artist was trying to send.

Whatever corner of Stygia this place has been tucked into, it’s large enough to let us walk past two hall intersections before we turn. A handful of human souls pass us on the way, all with polite nods to Trey. People with work to do. I wonder what sort of paperwork the aristocracy of _Theft_ needs to accomplish.

“Somehow,” I tell Trey, “I never realized that Stygia had corporate strongholds. It always seemed like white-collar crime was such a Greed thing.”

“They don’t have a monopoly on it,” he says, “any more than the War has a monopoly on shooting people. And Greed’s in no position to argue over Words with strong overlap these days. They can barely hang onto the ones that are clearly a direct subset of that Word. How much do you want to bet Haagenti’s going to eat Mammon before the next century rolls over?”

“No bet. Sometimes I’m surprised the other Princes don’t worry more about that one.”

“I expect they do,” Trey says, stopping at a door labeled in neat lettering. But it’s not Chinese characters, or Helltongue glyphs; his name’s written out in Greek letters. He fishes through his pockets until he comes up with a ring of keys, chained to an antique coin. “But quietly where no one else sees, because it’s bad for morale to think your Prince is nervous.” And it’s the coin he uses to unlock the door. “I suspect that--”

“Lanthano!” The demonling dashing down the hall towards us has a voice on the squeaky end of the spectrum, and looks enough like a winged human child with too-long legs that she’s probably a Force away from fledging Impudite herself. She skids to a stop a meter away from us, with one quick nervous glance at me, but most of her attention on--well, Lanthano, who is so very much _that_ name here, whatever he goes by on the corporeal. “Can we finally upgrade your computer? The sysadmin has been _whining_ and threatening to do it without your permission if you didn’t give word, and I’d really like it if she’d just shut up about it already.”

“I never let them put a new release on my computer,” Lanthano says, and reaches out to tug at the demonling’s pinstriped tie. “You know that. Go tell her that she can ask again at the six month mark, when we have stats on how many people have had mysterious computer-related deaths after upgrading.”

“They swear that--”

“The Vapulans swear a _lot_ of things about technology, and it’s a bad idea to listen if it’s a Balseraph swearing it.”

“But she says that your version number is different from everyone elses and it really bugs her.” The demonling stomps a foot. “Just let us upgrade it! We already backed up all your files, and we have off-site backups, and we’ll do it in the clean room like usual.”

“Six months.” Lanthano spins her around by the shoulders, and gives her a little shove. “Go tell her. Her OCD is not my problem. Tell her, I don’t know, to send an email detailing all the improvements in the latest upgrade. I’ll pretend to read it.”

“So who’s that?” I ask, while Lanthano leads the way into his office. The marble floors continue inside, but with an enormous rug in red and gold spread across the room. It’s not so much an office as a studio apartment with an office focus; there’s a futon a few meters behind the desk, and a door standing open shows a tiny sink-and-shower room beyond.

“Otgonbayar,” he says. He shuts the door, and heads straight for the desk. “She’s the administrative assistant for this hall, but our sysadmin ends up running her around half the time. I think she’s getting a messenger role once she fledges properly, since that’s what we’re short on at the moment. Grab a drink from the fridge if you want anything. I’ll just be a few minutes.”

I check the minifridge beside the futon. It confirms my pre-existing belief that there’s just no getting good beer in Hell at any reasonable price, so I sprawl over the corner of the not-couch and wait for the Impudite to finish at the computer.

When he has finished, he sits down beside me. “How are you holding up?”

“Fine?” It’s not a question I was expecting. “I’m not the one who got kidnapped and interrogated by angels. This time around.”

“And yet,” he says wryly, “you’ve been acting like you expect someone to snap at you over it. Surely you’ve been rewarded for good work before.”

I’m not sure this is a conversation I want to have, but here we are. And he’s too socially adept to be easily led into another topic. “It’s probably happened a few times. I just don’t want to step on any toes.”

“By _rescuing_ people?”

I wave a hand towards, I don’t know, the world beyond. “By taking charge when I’m not supposed to. People have said I have problems with authority, but it’s more that I’m not real good at respecting the chain of command when something needs to be done and I have the best way of doing it. There are a lot of people out there who’d rather have a mission fail while they’re being shown sufficient respect than succeed with someone telling them what to do.”

“Then those people are self-absorbed idiots,” Lanthano says. “I was _surprised_ , but I’m not upset that you took charge. You know what to do. You’ve done that sort of thing before.”

“Something a bit like that once or twice a month.” I have a terrible urge to curl up with my head in his lap and complain about authority figures I’ve had to deal with before. Maybe some other time. “And--look, I know you’re reasonable, but how am I supposed to know with the Marquis?”

“I can tell you that she’s reasonable,” he says. “Though I don’t know how to make you believe it. She is. She asks us to do our jobs, and watch out for each other, and we’re paid well for doing well. She even respects the sorts of things we can’t bear to do, and you know how rare that is in Hell.”

“Rare enough that I don’t believe you,” I say. Sometimes I’d rather be honest than say the right thing. It’s a bad habit that I ought to break. “You can’t tell me you’ve never had to do something you’d rather not.”

He slides an arm around my shoulders, resting his hand on the ridges of my wing. I’m still not used to feeling any touch there, as it’s been so very long since I spent much time in this body. It doesn’t feel as real to me as my better vessel does. “Jobs I didn’t like? Sure. Not often, but it comes up. There are restrictions now and again. I’ve wanted a few tattoos on one of my vessels for decades, but I’m not allowed to have that.” He presses a kiss against my temple, and waits for me to face him directly. “Sure. Things I’d rather not. But I have not set one foot in Shal-Mari since the day I left the service of Lust, and the Marquis _will not_ make me go back there. On what matters? That’s solid.”

“And what if someone had kidnapped Guo and run him off there? And you were the only one close enough to go get him back in time?”

Lanthano’s quiet for a moment. That’s really not a question I should have asked. His thumb strokes along the edge of my wing, until I’m shivering there. “If I didn’t go,” he says, “Chaixin would have been disappointed in me.”

“And what exactly does ‘disappointed’ translate into, in this place?”

He shrugs. “Disappointed. She would say so. And that would hurt, because I don’t want to disappoint her. But she would understand. And maybe I would convince myself to go be a rescuer. It’s hard to say without being in the moment.” His smile’s a small thing. “You would go.”

“I don’t have the history with that place that you do.” History of my own, but it’s different.

“Still. You would go.”

“For Guo? Probably not. I’d rather deal with angels.” I lean my head on his shoulder, and hate the way my horns drag against the back of the futon. “Never mind the question. It’s hypothetical, and it doesn’t matter.”

Lanthano pulls away. No, not away, but back across the futon so that I do end up stretched out there, my head in his lap. “It does matter,” he says. “You want to know how we do things here when the shit hits the fan, and it’s fair to ask. To figure out before entering some new group if everyone’s rabidly protective of their position or not. The competition between Julie and Zabina isn’t the norm.”

“I told you, I’m not signing up.” Not when the offer was only made the once to annoy Zhune, anyway. I rest my cheek on his thigh, and consider his office. Tidy, but it looks lived in. This is not a place he visits a few times a year. “I can cope with strict hierarchies, too, if people are okay with...taking suggestions.”

“Like your partner does.”

“Something like that.” I draw circles on his knee with one finger. “When everything is happening too fast and it’s not just bullets flying, or when there’s complicated scheming to do, I get to be in charge. And then the rest of the time we play the game where he’s the experienced older demon who has all the friends and contacts and knows what we ought to do, and I’m the hotshot kid who doesn’t know enough to shut up in the wrong company.”

“Doesn’t sound like a very fun game.”

I lay my hand flat over his knee before I can start picking at the threads in his jeans. A very Calabite habit, but I try not to indulge in it on things that aren’t mine. More or less. “It works. It’s still better than working for the War. He’s never once set me up to get killed.”

“Damning--”

“--with faint praise, yes, but we’re demons, Lanthano. We’re all damned.” I roll onto my back, which isn’t so comfortable with wings and horns, but lets me look up at his face. “For the last several years, nearly every conversation I have with another demon ends up being about my partner. Sometimes I get tired of being seen as his current accessory. Let’s talk about _anything_ else.”

“Fashion,” Lanthano says lightly, tugging on the collar of my jacket. “Except I’d end up lecturing, and that’s no fun. If you really want a fashion lecture, you can ask Zabina. We can gossip about all the people we work with who _aren’t_ here right now. That’s a classic.”

“I could ask you nosy personal questions. Or explain the symbolism in several important novels of the last few centuries.”

“Let’s go with the first one,” Lanthano says. “I don’t feel like being lectured either.”

There are so many light and inconsequential questions I could ask. Flattering ones and distracting ones. But I am in a mood, like I can’t even put words to, after this day. On edge and relieved and giddy with success, and wondering when it falls apart because nothing ever goes this well. It’s the kind of mood that usually had me mouthing off to Regan’s captain after a successful mission, and maybe it is entirely my fault that I associate success with punishment and poisoned rewards.

“Guo told me about what happened to him in Factions. And how you called in your boss, and got him out of there.” I reach up to tap him in the chest. “What were you doing in that room? Because I haven’t forgotten what we talked about the first time.”

“When I asked you out for coffee?” He doesn’t follow, though he sounds a little amused at being reminded of the conversation.

“When you worked out if I was the sort of person who wanted to see someone shredded for fun, _before_ you asked me out for coffee. You’re not. So why were you there?”

He wraps a hand around mine. “What do you think?”

“I have a few theories.”

“But you’d like to know if I’ll tell you the truth or not.”

“Like I’d be able to tell the difference. But there’s more and less plausible.”

He adds another hand to his grip, and then spreads my hand out between his. Fingers between fingers. “Chaixin sent me out to recruit,” he says. “We needed another Shedite. Not urgently, but for long-term expansion. Young was fine. Loyal was essential.”

“And the best way to get loyal is to find people in terrible situations, and rescue them.”

He shrugs loosely, and presses his thumb into the center of my palm. “Not everyone who’s been rescued is loyal. But it gives you a better chance.” He has a faint smile for me when my fingers curl in towards his thumb. “Every day in Hell there are a thousand stories as terrible as Guo’s. Once in a while, we step in and fix it. I _enjoy_ being able to save someone who deserves saving.”

“And what about when they turn out not to deserve it?”

“Then they get moved elsewhere. Generally somewhere quiet where not much is riding on them, unless they try to stab everyone in the back, in which case Chaixin deals with them. She can be--very forgiving, especially early on, about how people come from bad situations and need to learn how to play nicely with others. But there are limits.” He presses my hand down to my breastbone, his knuckles not quite sharp through the fabric of my shirt. “Guo’s not very bright and he’s not very good with people, but he’s proven himself enough to be sent to the corporeal. Where he’ll get a proper education, and some day he’ll be a person worth knowing entirely on his own account, and not just for who he might become.”

“I’ve met worse.” I shift my gaze up to his ceiling, and realize that’s been painted too. A starry night, cloudless, with a hint of sunset--or dawn, I’m not sure which--creeping in from one edge. “I’ve seen worse be pulled apart when they were knocked out of their host. And when it happened, I stood back and watched. Didn’t offer a hand.”

“Coworkers of yours?”

“I don’t know. Not really. Or it depends on how you count it. They were serving the War, so it was worse for them. Running away meant dissonance, and a chance that you’d get pulled apart anyway, for having proved yourself a coward.” I pull my hand out from his, and set my hands behind my head, below my horns, where my fingers give me more separation between myself and Lanthano’s lap. “I’m more or less a coward at heart. I like staying alive, for however long I can manage it.”

“And you still ran in there.”

“They couldn’t see me, didn’t know I was coming. I had enough Essence to get out. And at worst, I’d lose a vessel.”

He leans in so that I’m looking at his face again, instead of the ceiling. “Why are you so determined not to take credit for what you’ve done?”

“Why are you so determined to give me credit for what wasn’t even my job?”

“You’re absolutely _impossible_ sometimes, Leo, you know that?”

“Well, I’ve had a few hints. Mostly when other people tell me so.”

He laughs. “I could tell you what the Marquis said when I explained what happened. Do you want to hear?”

“No?”

“It was complimentary. You’ve _impressed_ people.”

“It’s not going to work,” I tell him. Much as I might prefer not to. I’d like to maintain a little clarity in this relationship, such as it is, which means honesty in specific areas. “Talking me into signing up. It’s _not_.”

“Why shouldn’t it?”

“Because I decline to be seduced. You have a life that works nicely for you, and a boss you like, and coworkers you get along with, and...that’s all very nice, but it’s your life, and it’s not mine. And I’m not signing up.”

He draws a finger across my lips. “Why not?”

“The woods are lovely, dark and deep, but I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep.”

It’s not an answer. Zhune’s been quite pointed about that before. But Lanthano smiles wryly, and says, “Maybe later. How do you feel about making out on a futon?”

“Are we in a hurry to get back to the apartment?”

“Nope.”

“Then I feel pretty good about it.”

“Excellent. How do you feel about getting bent over that desk there?”

“Ask me again in ten minutes.”

#

An hour and change later, we finally leave the office. It’s a good thing Lanthano keeps spare clothing there, and that his shirts fit me pretty well in this form, because I’m not getting that other shirt back in wearable condition without more effort than it’s worth.

“Give me an idea of what you want,” Lanthano says. He’s leading me on a wandering route through the halls that I’m sure isn’t the fastest way, but it means he can show off all the interesting murals. It’s not like I’m in a great rush to get back to my work. “We’ve picked up a little bit of everything over the years, and what’s not in use gets shoved into the vault for when someone needs it.”

“It doesn’t really matter.” It’s so very odd to be walking hand in hand. Zhune and I only do that when we’re playing loving couple for onlookers, and not often at that. But when he took my hand to drag me through the Marquis’s headquarters, I wasn’t in the mood to pull away.

No one gives us a second glance, at that. One look to see that it’s him, a proper nod of respect from a damned soul to a demon, and they have no reason to care about me while I’m in good company.

“It’s a reward for doing something that mattered, so the reward matters too.” He’s all charming smiles again. The same person he was back in the office, but the version of himself that’s ready to be seen by the public. Confident and cheerful at all times. “Give me a category, at least. What would you find useful? Or what would you _like_ to have?”

“I honestly don’t care. Pick out whatever you think is appropriate.” I would have opinions if I thought I’d be able to keep what’s being passed out, but if it’s an object, that’s not happening. Zhune lets me keep the tiny earring I picked up when we made a delivery to Secrets, but only, I think, because it was a reward for a job we did together. And a job assigned by our Prince, even if he wasn’t the one passing out the rewards for it. Still wouldn’t be surprised if that disappeared one of these days. Most things do. It bothers me more when it was something I liked, so it’s easiest to not acquire things I like much in the first place.

“Give me something to work with. Size, style, whether you want a talisman or an artifact or something that’s only for use in Hell...” He nudges my shoulder with his. “If you prefer cash, that can be arranged, but we’d have to stop by the accounting office instead.”

“She said the vault, so I’m not going to ask for otherwise.”

“If I direct you to a display case, are you willing to point?” The tone’s exasperated, but it’s said with a smile, so I don’t think he’s even as annoyed as he’s pretending.

“Sure. Blindfold, spin me around...”

“I swear, I will take you up on it if you don’t give me a suggestion.” He takes us around a corner, and this short hallway has no doors but the stone and steel one at the far end. In front of which stands a Calabite as unlike Chaixin as Zabina is unlike Julie.

Or more so, I realize, as we walk up to her. All us Calabim look like humans at the core, like it or not. And she...does. I suppose. But less so than any other Calabite I’ve met before. I don’t even know how to pinpoint it, because she has all the right body parts, from the craggy horns down to feet in perfectly ordinary combat boots. And yet she doesn’t look like humans, the way horses don’t look like deer, despite being four-footed mammals with hooves and long noses and pointed ears. If there were another sentient species that evolved in parallel with humans, I think they might look like her.

And here in Hell, where it’s easier to see how powerful someone really is, she is clearly far bigger than I am. Which makes me glad she directs a friendly smile towards Lanthano. This is not someone I want to get into an argument with.

“Long time no see, Thano,” she says. “Need to check something out?”

“No, I’m making a withdrawal.” He nods my way, his fingers tightening around my hand. “Leo here rescued Guo from a Sheditenapping by a pair of angels. The boss said he gets a reward.”

“Nice work,” she says to me. “You can tell me the story while Thano gets your present for you.”

“I was thinking,” Lanthano says, “that he could come in with me, to see--”

“No can do,” says the Calabite. “He’s a contractor. Rules are rules. If you want to parade in and out seventeen times to describe the options, it’s no skin off my nose, but he doesn’t go through the door.”

“But Chaixin said--”

The Calabite stretches out a hand to poke Lanthano in the nose. It’s terribly undignified, and I keep a straight face for his sake. “Nope. No. Nuh-uh. No way, no how. If it’s important, you can come back with a signed statement from the Marquis saying that she wants this particular person to walk through that door, and otherwise, I have my orders.”

“It’s fine,” I tell him. “Pick out something that you think suits me. Either you’ll be right or it’ll be exciting to find out what you think of me.”

Lanthano rolls his eyes. “I swear, we’re not usually this...employee handbook about things.”

“And that’s because I’m not an employee,” the Calabite says calmly, “I’m a contractor, so I follow the _rules_. Go on inside and I’ll talk with the cute little Destroyer. I haven’t had a conversation with anyone from my own Band in years.”

I would usually dispute “cute” and “little” both, but under the circumstances I keep my mouth shut.

Lanthano squeezes my hand before he lets go. “I’ll be back as soon as I find something you’ll like,” he says, like I’ve set him a challenge, and I guess I have. “Don’t let C harass you too much, or believe more than half of what she says.”

The Calabite turns sideways--not letting me out of her sight, I notice--and grips the edge of the door. It slides smoothly into the wall, and Lanthano stalks through, into a room of shelves and boxes and I swear that was a hovering silver goblet in the center of the room. Then the door slides shut again.

“Come here and let me get a look at you,” says the Calabite, beckoning with two fingers. I step forward as politely as I can, because she can catch me if I bolt anyway. “It’s about time someone brought gossip back here about what the kids are doing downstairs. Otgon’s ready enough with the local gossip, but I could read the tabloids if I cared about that. How’s the project going?”

“Wouldn’t know, since they won’t tell me what it’s about. My part of it is going fine. Is C a nickname?”

“Oh, tell me what you think,” she says. 

“Hadn’t really come up with a theory yet.”

She tells me her name. I can see why people go with the abbreviation.

“So,” I say, shoving my hands into jacket pockets, “guarding the vault door. That must be...fun?”

“It’s a living,” she says. “Figure I’ll give it another century or two, then decline to renew my contract if I don’t feel like it anymore. No reason to rush decisions, huh?” She contemplates me from above. “How old are you?”

“Not very.”

“Figured. I know the type. Spark up hot from the start, and then either burn out fast or learn how to control it. A lot more of the former than the latter, but that’s Hell for you.” She shrugs expansively. I suspect that she could take Zhune in a fair fight, and knows better than to get into fair fights to start with. “How are you liking the contract work?”

“It’s fine.”

“Fine,” she repeats, and laughs. The floor shivers beneath me. “Playing it close to your chest. Maybe you will make it out alive. You want some advice?”

Not really. “Sure,” I say.

“Nah, you don’t. But I’ll give it to you anyway.” She rolls her head around on her neck, and I can hear the popping sounds from here. “Figure out what you like. Hold onto it. But don’t get too attached. Because everything dies, sooner or later. The whole Symphony’s a story of things falling apart, and if you wait long enough, you’ll hit the floor.”

“Suppose so.”

“You don’t believe me yet,” she says. “Not down deep. But it’s true. You can blame time, if you feel like it. That’s the fourth dimension, and we can jump and run and flail all we want in the other three, but the fourth, it’s a straight line, a one-way trip. No turning back. The station passes your window, and it’s gone. No getting off, no slowing down. And anything that looks bright and lively, well, it’s burning itself to death in making that light. Look at those stars. Brightest thing in the sky is what’s burning through its body the fastest.”

“So, what? The answer is to slow down and not burn out?”

“Did I say that?” She reaches out to grab one of my horns, and pulls me in closer. “Here. Let me tell you a secret. There’s no going back.”

“That’s not exactly a secret.” I am almost entirely sure she has no violence in mind, though there’s no telling with my Band. But her grip on my horn is a friendly one, if I can call it such a thing.

“Ha. You don’t believe me, all over again. There’s no going back, little breaker-of-the-world. It’s not just what you smash, it’s what you were. Like it or hate it, time keeps rolling us along, tumbling down towards the ground we can’t see below us.” She heaves a sigh, which sounds more pleased than otherwise. “You’ll figure it out eventually. Maybe I should let you figure this out on your own, but I get bored here with no one like me to talk to. And it’s not as if you believe me anyway, so you’ll work out the details through experience just like everyone else.”

“There are things,” I say, “which are alive now, which were alive when the universe began.”

“Oh, a few of them,” she says. “And a lot more that were alive shortly after that, which are long dead and forgotten. When I reached Hell, oh, the Princes that we had, and then the Princes that we didn’t have, as they tore out each other’s throats over this or that. I served an Archangel once that you couldn’t guess the name of, because no one around here remembers her. Her name’s probably written down somewhere in Heaven, but no one there cares, either. And look who’s survived! Laughter? Who would’ve thought it, when better than him bled out?”

She contemplates me for a moment, then grins.

“But look at me. Going on like this. Ask a question, make conversation. Something along those lines.”

“I was wondering,” I say, careful of my phrasing, “how you ended up here.”

“At this door? Contract, same as always. I’m good about fulfilling my contracts. Hell? Oh, I could claim it was some grand philosophical stance, but it wasn’t. It turns out that if all my friends jumped off a bridge, I _would_ do that too. Besides, you know Ofanim. Things they’re known for: snap decisions and sudden movement. Things they’re not known for: calm, reasoned consideration of the positive and negative potential of what’s in front of them.” She yawns, tongue curling up against her teeth like a Balseraph’s. “You should’ve seen the early days of that world below us. Stars flaring into light and falling into darkness, the molten cores of planets cooling to cold dark rock, and then creeping bits of mindless life growing over the surface. Good times.”

“Until you were locked away in Hell.”

“Oh, my tiny clever atom-smasher,” she says, “you say that like it was a _problem_. I spent fifty million years watching one set of dinosaurs turn into another set, and you think six thousand years locked away in the dark would bother me? If Lilith hadn’t come along, we would’ve worked our way out eventually. There was no rush. There were kingdoms to raise and topple, revolutions to crush and revolutions to lead... We kept ourselves occupied. A hundred Princes sprang up and fell without ever seeing the corporeal, and frankly, I didn’t miss it. Not a bad place to poke around at now and again, but it gets so boring if you’re staring at a single planet day in and day out.”

“I don’t think I can understand the way you think,” I say. “Not without living much longer than I have.”

“You can’t. But try, just a little. It’ll stretch your mind.” She chucks me under the chin, and lets go of my horn. “The important part is forward motion. No, don’t give me that look, I don’t mean the Ofanite thing. The way time rolls you forward. The way everything and everyone dies. Every friend and enemy you’ve ever had, love them or hate them, either they’ll die or you’ll die. Both, really, but you’ll see one or the other happen.”

“Things fall apart.” My hands are cold in my pockets. “The center cannot hold.”

C taps her nose, then points at me. “Bright boy. You’ll last longer than some. Not so long as others, I suppose that’s just tautology there. The important point is to enjoy where you are, and if you don’t, find a way to go where you will. Just don’t try to go backwards. It never works. I had this one friend, back when I temped for Death for a few centuries. What a wicked girl she was. I loved to listen to her. Real purity of purpose, you know? All burning rage. I expected her to burn right out, she ran so hot. Especially as a newcomer to Hell. She fell when her Archangel died, and then kept _running_. It was...” She waves a hand, the talons on her fingers almost scraping the paint on the wall. “Inspiring, that’s what it was. Then one day she up and decides to go back to Heaven.”

“But she didn’t make it.”

“Don’t go jumping ahead of my story,” she says amiably. “She made it just fine, from what I heard. I sent a letter once, but she never answered. Stands to reason. She’s moved on, and doesn’t want to hear about the messy past. My point, you impatient little hooligan, is that she didn’t go back to what she was before. There is no going back. Back to Heaven, yes, but they’ll never trust her the same way again. She’s not who she once was. Her friends moved on, up there and down here. If she Falls again, she won’t be the same down here, either. And we’re all falling, you know. Angels and demons and humans and animals and the little bits of reality that make up the pieces of things that make up atoms. Falling down towards the end of time.”

“When everything stops.”

“Or when God starts it all over again. Maybe next time she’ll get it right. But probably not. There’s no right or wrong, only time marching along. She’d have to freeze it to a single instant for perfection, and apparently that’s not her style.”

“It surprises me,” I say, “that you don’t work for Fate.”

“What makes you think I don’t?” She laughs. “But I _don’t_. What a boring set they are. Took a look at them, after that old bastard showed up. Thought about it a while. Decided I didn’t enjoy myself there, so that’s not where I am. Simple as that.”

“Simple as that.” I’m saved from further comment by C turning around to pull the door open again. She must’ve heard some signal I didn’t, because Lanthano’s waiting on the other side of the door.

“All done,” she asks him, “or do you need to have a few consults before you’re settled?”

“All done. Thanks ever so much for the help.” I haven’t heard Lanthano that snippy before. It’s sort of cute. (I probably shouldn’t tell him that.)

The Calabite laughs, and claps him on the shoulder so hard that he staggers. “Stop by more often. And tell your boss the same. No one gives me any conversation around here since Daosheng died.”

“I’ll let her know,” Lanthano says tightly. He grabs my hand, and stalks away. Which means I have to hurry to follow, while C waves pleasantly at our retreat.

Once we’ve turned the corner and walked a bit further, he takes a breath, and says, “Some _days_. I hope she wasn’t too weird at you while I was inside. She gets into the oddest conversations with the demonlings, sometimes.”

“No, it was...interesting.” I have a whole new set of things to think about on long drives and stakeouts when I don’t want to think about my own past. “How did you end up with someone from Secrets temping for you, anyway?”

“You’d have to ask Chaixin. C has been standing guard on the vault since before I signed on.” His next smile for me is at ninety percent of full charm capacity. That mention of the other Marquis was not something he wanted, all else aside, and I have no intention of asking him about the matter. We all have things we don’t want to talk about. “Guess what I got you from the vault.”

“A nice thank-you note made out to someone else?”

He bumps his shoulder against mine. “No, not _quite_.” He pulls a knife in a tidy gray sheath out of his pocket, and offers it to me. “You’ll like this one. Stab someone with it, it’s an ordinary knife. Not even a talisman, sorry, but it’ll stay sharp forever. Use Essence on it and run it along an existing wound, and it’ll do some healing. Not enough to fix major injuries without a lot of Essence, but good for things like what happened to Guo’s leg.”

“Multi-purpose.” I weigh the knife in my hand, then detach my hand from his to work the sheath onto my belt. Maybe if I keep it on my favorite vessel, Zhune won’t notice it for a while, and I’ll actually have it around when I need it. Probably not, but it’s nice to harbor some unreasonable hopes now and again, just for the novelty of it. “I like it. And I like what it says about me. It says, ‘Here’s a guy who will probably try to murder you, but he might help you out. Hard to say!’ Appropriate.”

“Not _quite_ ,” Lanthano says, but he’s laughing. “Let’s stop by my office again. We can take the whole afternoon off, and no one’s going to mind.”

I should get back to work. I should get that report _done_ , so that I can get away from this contract and back to my usual life all the sooner.

But I want an afternoon off with Lanthano, and I take it, and I’m not about to apologize for that to anyone.


	33. In Which I Probably Should Have Just Gone Clubbing Instead

My report to the Marquis on Friday is neither terrifying nor exceptional. She has two remarks on style, and one on substance, after which I’m sent back to the apartment to continue my work.

It’s not unlike working for Ylva again, except without the passive-aggressive memos or the surliness. About the same number of words per meeting. I could almost wonder if advancing in Hell’s ranks made people quieter, except that Captain Savas could be a right chatty bastard when he was in a mood.

Julie returns from her report looking far too pleased with herself, and immediately gets into a fight with Zabina, so I gather _her_ part of the project is going well. Their arguments have a different tone depending on who thinks she’s ahead in their competition, and for the first time since that run-in I had with Tess, Julie thinks she’s on equal footing again. I’m not sure if that’s true--the Impudites are both unnervingly optimistic at times--but it makes the apartment a little easier to live in, if noisier.

What does not make the apartment easier to live in today is Guo. Or, more precisely, Guo’s decision that since I was willing to risk a fight with a few angels to bring him back home, we’re the best of friends. Which we are not. He’s still wearing the host from yesterday, after a quick trip to take care of host-specific personal business and a little shoplifting, and he follows me around with these enormous, hopeful eyes. 

I’ve done nothing differently since we got back. Hell, I’ve done less to try to give him advice than I did before. It shouldn’t read as encouragement. But he sits on the couch directly behind me where I can’t see him, and comes to me with books to ask for my reading advice, and generally makes a pest of himself in such a childish, earnest way that I can’t really bring myself to be nasty about it. He means well. He’s just really bad at _doing_ well.

“I swear to god,” I tell Trey during a cigarette break, “if he keeps sitting behind me like that--”

“I’ll take care of it.” Trey (who is not exactly Lanthano when he’s here, much as he’s not exactly Trey when he’s down in Stygia) cups a hand around the flame to light his second cigarette of the break. The morning one was canceled on account of what the weather forecast delicately termed “wintry mix”, which sounds like a snack food but is instead a type of precipitation more miserable than either of rain or snow alone. “Unless you’d like to keep him around to run errands for you. You could just _tell_ him where to sit.”

“The more I tell him to do things, the more he’s going to assume I want to hang out. I don’t. And I get the feeling he’d as soon get in my pants, too.”

“Definitely.” Trey hands me a cigarette. “If you asked him to try a different host--”

“Oh, no. _No._ I don’t do humans for anything short of mandatory work purposes, no matter who’s wearing them. He’ll learn to deal with disappointment.”

“He’s good at that. I already told him he’s not allowed to start smoking until he’s older.” Trey grins at me. “Or until he can make it look cool. Poor kid. He’s not allowed to drink alcohol, either. Had to sit him down with a six-pack once and get him drunk, though, so he’d know what it felt like, just in case it couldn’t be avoided. He was slurring his words by the third beer.”

“He needs a few more Forces, whatever type he picks up.” I turn my cigarette around between my fingers, watching it turn to ash. Could stand to find better gloves for this vessel, if this weather is going to keep up. “Did he do this to you, when you first pulled him in?”

“He tried, but since he didn’t have enough Forces to fill a bucket, it mostly consisted of staring at me whenever I walked past. And most of that gratitude landed on the boss, anyway.” He surveys the gray skies overhead. Sunset’s nearly on us, and the Essence would be welcome. Two Songs, ascending to Hell, coming back down to the corporeal, getting work done... It’s been an expensive twenty-four hours, even with Julie and Trey passing out Essence like candy to keep reserves high. “I can take him out tonight to give you some breathing space. He could use a few lessons on how to handle a younger host.”

“I’d appreciate it.”

Trey waves off the thanks, and looks slightly pleased nonetheless. I’m getting better at catching his reactions beneath the surface charm. Like trying to read road signs while the sun’s in my eyes. “Showing him the ropes is part of my job, and now that Julie and Zabina aren’t breathing down my neck about getting _them_ results, I should focus on it. Want me to pick up anything while we’re out?”

“Buy Guo a copy of Les Miserables. The unabridged version.”

Trey laughs. “And you say you aren’t cruel. In English, or French?”

“He reads French?”

“I think so. Zabina’s convinced no one who doesn’t can be a proper adult, and he’s been trying to impress her.”

“Stick to the English, or I’m going to feel left behind.” I finish off my cigarette, and dispose of it neatly. “Who’s on babysitting duty tonight?”

“I suppose it depends on who wins the next argument about getting the car.” He takes my hand up for climbing back through the window. “Julie’s in a mood, so you’re probably here with Zabina tonight, unless you want to head out with Julie.”

“To a club? I’d rather stay home.” I drop that line of conversation as we reach the main room again. Company policy appears to be that you talk constantly about other employees behind their back, but never to their faces.

Trey diverts Guo neatly while I help Zabina put together dinner, and then drags him out for Social Lessons while the washing up is still going on. Can’t really begrudge them the avoidance of chores if they’re spending the night on something like work. The timing of it must give Guo the oddest impression of how humans work. The day spent wandering around in observation or here with us, and then the nights out with other demons who give him pointers on what humans are like, drawn from the subset of those awake and in public after dinnertime. Presumably he gets ordinary daytime instruction now and again too, to balance it out.

Zabina and Julie have a short conversation I can’t follow while I’m wiping down the counters. For once, it doesn’t sound like an argument. And when it’s over, Julie slides over to me, striped socks across the wood floor. She has a spin at the end, and a smile for me that’s exactly as genuine as Trey’s. “Lee, help me out with something?”

I hang the towel up, and scrub my hands clean on my jeans. “That’s not ominously vague or anything.”

“Nothing spooky, promise.” She slides away across the floor towards the door to her bedroom.

I follow as much out of curiosity as anything else.

The bedroom she shares with Zabina has been hit by some clothing-based disaster since I passed through it for the last cigarette break. I try not to step on anything sparkly on the way in. “Laundry day?”

“That’s tomorrow.” She dangles a shirt at me between two fingers. “What do you think?”

“I’m sure it’ll look good on you.”

She rolls her eyes. “Not on me, on you. I picked up a few new things. If you swap vessels, you can try it on. I’ll spot you the Essence.”

“I’m not supposed to go anywhere in that vessel,” I point out.

“So what? That doesn’t mean you can’t wear clothing you look good in anyway.” She tosses me the shirt, and I catch it out of habit. “Or the vessel you look good in. Wear it because I like it, or wear it for yourself, because it looks good. Isn’t that reason enough?”

I toss the shirt back. “Thanks for the thought, but I don’t like that vessel anyway.”

“Why not?” She sits down on the bed, crossing her legs. “It’s cute, it’s compact--that’s so _useful_ sometimes, except for when you need to reach high shelves, and then it’s useful for making someone else do that reaching for you--and you can get so much out of people not expecting the pretty little thing to be a bruiser! Not that you’re _exactly_ a bruiser, but even so. Two options are better than one when it comes to ways to look on the corporeal. Dress it up, dress it down...” She taps a finger on her lips. “It’s the girl thing, isn’t it.”

My arms are crossed, and I don’t want to look too damn defensive about this. “It’s the girl thing, yeah.”

“You _could_ dress like a boy, in a vessel like that. You wouldn’t look old enough to smoke, much less drink, but you could make it work. Trey could give you help with that one. He’s better with figuring out how to make vessels do different things. Me, I’d just swap vessels.” She holds out the shirt she offered me, and considers it. “And this color would look good on you either way. Maybe not this cut. It’s a very girly cut. You’d probably have to do something with the hair, too. Trey has enough gel to style a boy band, so no problem there.”

I cannot help but picture this, despite my best attempts. “I’ll just keep that option in mind.”

Julie pats the bed beside her. “Stop acting like you’re about to bolt for the door, and come talk with me. I don’t bite.”

I take a seat on the bed, not quite as close as she indicated. I think I’m sitting on two and a half outfits. “Liar.”

“I don’t bite in a way that people don’t like,” she says, and shows off pretty white human teeth in a smile that still implies a more demonic snap waiting behind them. “So it’s _like_ the truth. And since I’m telling the truth, you tell me: what has you shying away again? I thought we had fun. Is it just that you like boys better? I’m not going to hold it against you if that’s how you feel, Lee, you know that I like girls better myself.”

“We had fun. There’s nothing wrong. But since you like girls, and I’m not much into being one...” I shrug. “I don’t want to do anything with that vessel. Not dress it up or down or as a boy, or go out in it or stay home.”

“It’s your tool,” Julie says, “so of _course_ you can do what you want with it, but I think it’s a shame to not have more fun with it now that you know you can. If you don’t like dressing like a girl, we could skip past the whole clothes thing entirely.”

“Julie, did you ask me into here just because you wanted to have sex?”

“Not _only_ that,” she says, shameless as any Impudite should be under the circumstances. “I thought it would be fun to dress you up before undressing you, but I’m not _committed_ that plan or anything.” She uncrosses her legs, and stretches them out, toes pointing. “If that’s the only vessel you’re willing to use, that’s fine too. There are still things we can do.”

“I thought you weren’t into boys.” Maybe I’m just being contrary because I can be, but...I don’t know, maybe I’m pickier when I know I have the option of someone who likes me in the same form that I like myself.

Julie whips around to deposit herself into my lap. Or over it, more precisely, knees to each side of my legs and her hands braced on my knees. “Lee, I’m into _you_. Even if I do prefer the other vessel, what’s a vessel choice between friends? I can have a favorite pair of pants and still like wearing a different set when that one’s in the wash or loaned out.”

Not sure how I feel about comparing my vessel choices to laundry, but she has a point. A tool is a tool, even if it’s my primary means of interacting with the world around me, and has been for years. They’re like cars in that regard, and including the way I end up replacing them periodically due to damage.

“So that’s how you work with your vessels? Swap to whichever one is most convenient?”

“Or I like the best. But usually whichever one works for the situation.” She runs her fingers down the buttons of my shirt. “How about a deal? You show me yours, and I’ll show you mine.”

“You think that’s a fair swap?”

“Entirely. We’d both be in our second-favorite vessels, and the amount that _I’m_ interested in seeing yours again should be about the same as how curious _you_ are to what my other one looks like.” She kisses me lightly, nothing more than lips to lips and Essence slipping from her to me. “Don’t you want to see? Tell me you’re a _little_ curious.”

“A little,” I say. They’ve seen every vessel I have, and I haven’t seen more than one for any of them. I’m not even sure who I have a real name for, with some of them. It’s only fair that I should get a little more warning of what they have available, in case of...

I don’t know in case of what. All I have to do now is finish off the job I’ve been assigned. I’m all out of paranoia around these people, terrible a decision though that may be.

“Then it’s a deal.” Disturbance shivers around us as she switches vessels. The same posture, but the weight resting on the hands on my knees has increased. He’s taller than my vessel, better muscled--like Trey’s vessel, come to think of it--and his hair’s gelled into some sort of wild, perfect mess that I could not reproduce in a year of trying. Black pants and blood-red shirt, if I thought Julie was aggressive before that is _nothing_ on his smile from this form. “So what do you think? Wait a minute for the echoes to fade before you switch, or Zee will be banging on the door and telling us to keep it down.”

“You look more like you could rip someone’s throat out, in this body.”

Julie laughs. The same rhythm as from the other body, but a completely different sound from this throat. “Good. Though I haven’t, Lee, so don’t worry too much.” He settles down entirely on my lap. There’s a different sense to that when someone does that in a larger vessel, not a smaller one, even if he’s exactly as strong in this body as the other one. “I did take someone’s head off once, but those were unusual circumstances, and she _entirely_ deserved it. Murder’s not really my thing! It’s messy and noisy and then there’s all the work of keeping it away from people who freak out over bodies. Almost never worth it.”

“I certainly feel reassured, knowing that.”

He runs a finger along my throat, and I wonder what Julie and Trey say about me when I’m not in earshot. (The answer’s obvious. I try not to wonder how much detail is involved.) “If you’d really rather, we could keep going like this. Trey will be so _annoyed_ to miss out, in that case, but he’ll live. And there’s always another day. I don’t want to press on the girl thing if it’s too weird for you, right?”

“Right. It’s not--weird, it’s just not my thing.”

“Which is fine.” He nudges me back, until I’m the one braced on my hands, and that’s no stable position with the mess on this bed. You’d think Julie would _mind_ the prospect of having sex on top of half her wardrobe, but maybe she’s into that. “If you want to stay like this, it’s okay, I’ll get it.”

“If you want a deal,” I say, “get some agreement before declaring it one, okay? But it’s fair enough to ask for what you want.”

“Lee, you know exactly what I want.” Julie presses me down onto my back, one hand in the center of my chest. “Do you want to give me that?”

It wasn’t a deal, exactly, but I would rather this be something I’m doing, not something done to me. And that’s almost a request. (I like Trey’s way of asking better.) “Why not?” I ask her, and use the Essence she gave me to take me from the one vessel to the other.

Wearing what I had on for the trip to the market, I’m over-dressed for this bedroom, especially under the heat of another body. Julie pulls off my gloves without asking. “You’re adorable like this, Lee.”

“Could we _not_ use that word?”

He lifts off me, and turns around to undo the laces on my boots. The good ones that Trey got me, and that I can’t wear in the other vessel. As opposed to the watch and the wallet he got me, which are on the other vessel, and I’m entirely surrounded by presents with different lengths of string attached, no matter which way I turn. “It’s a good word! And it fits. But we can use another one, Lee. What do you prefer?” He pulls a boot off. “Your vessel’s cute. Pretty. Darling--”

“God, _stop_ , before this involves ribbons or kittens.”

“No kittens.” He takes off my second boot, and yanks off my socks. “That’s more Trey’s thing, isn’t it? I like the kind that stay on the internet and don’t need their boxes changed. Sit up, let me get that jacket off. You must be sweltering in here. You can blame Zee for turning the thermostat up like that. You’d think after all those Prussian winters she’d be _fine_ with a Seattle winter, and here we are at seventy-five indoors.”

“Julie, are we honestly reduced to talking about the weather?”

“Maybe.” He pulls my jacket off so fast it nearly tumbles me down. A handful of days in the better vessel, and I start forgetting how small this one is. (Smaller, but a bit tougher. It’s not really a trade-off.) “We could talk about how hot you are, but you keep not liking the words I choose.” He holds the jacket up for a moment to look it over, then tosses it further down the bed, over a sparkling dress and a pair of leather pants I’ve seen her wear before. “I could swap to another language. But then how would I get any reaction? I _could_ be describing the weather, and you wouldn’t know the difference.”

I pull myself upright, my hands sliding across the clothes on the bed. “Hey, if that’s what turns you on, who am I to judge?”

“No judgment at all? Is that so?” Julie’s smile is like mine and our Prince’s. Always makes me feel odd when that one is turned on me. “Not for anything I do?” He tugs my shirt up, sweeps it over my head and leaves me tangled in it there for just long enough that I’m about ready to start resonating through it when he finally pulls it off.

“Okay, if you really want to know, I _am_ judging the haircut.” It makes me feel odd to be sitting here half naked in front of him, in a way I didn’t feel after the club. I’m not sure why. If anything, I’ve been more comfortable with Julie lately than I was then.

“My hair,” Julie says loftily, “is _amazing_.” He slides a hand under the waistband of my jeans, which were a little chilly for the weather at the market, and just fine for here. It’s only the rest of me that’s getting cold in this apartment. “We should dress you like a boy in this vessel some time, to see how it would look. You’d be this ethereal little redhead in spikes, all...what’s the word, fey? Makes me want to take pictures.”

“Don’t even think about it, Julie.”

He bends fingers in, and makes me twitch. “I wouldn’t. I’d just...want to. Sometimes it’s almost as much fun to think about the possibility as to follow through.”

“So long as you don’t.” I dig my hands into the bedspread, except I’m getting handfuls of her clothes instead. This is not my ideal setup for sex. Everything’s too slippery beneath me. “I’d be all--judgmental about it.”

When his head bends down over me, earrings rattle against each other. “We wouldn’t want _that_. Lee, relax a little. We’ve been here before, haven’t we?”

“More or less.” And that was something I liked, and this is something I’ve chosen, and it’s only old bad habits that have me anxious about anything at all. I let my shoulders fall back against the spread of clothes, silk-slick on one side and a rough denim on the other. “We’re not in any hurry, are we?”

“A little less of me, a little less certainty...” Julie undoes the button my jeans, zips them open. He’s dressed from shirt to shoes, blood red above me. “Maybe more hurry, since it was later in the night. We could have all night long. No rush.”

I don’t know that he’s aware of how much looming he does from that angle. Though I suppose an Impudite would be perfectly aware of what impression they give from every possible angle. He slides hair out of my face with his thumb.

“There’s no helping it, Lee,” he says. “You _are_ adorable like this.”

“If you keep using that word, _I_ will bite.”

“There are worse fates,” he says cheerily, and pulls my jeans down with both hands, until they’re a tangle around my ankles. He sets a foot on top of that, pinning my feet down. (Trey had a point, though. I’m a Calabite of Theft. I’m never _really_ trapped in a situation like this.) “If you’ve changed your mind since last time, I know a good way to get started.”

“Not really changing my mind on that one.”

“If that’s how you feel, that’s how it goes.” He shrugs, a smooth ripple that’s an instant of memory of Regan, and how she moved in all her vessels. Though an Impudite is nothing like a Balseraph, except for in the odd places where they’re so different they overlap. Convincing people to comply.

“Yeah,” I say. Inane. I never have anything useful to say in situations like these, and Zhune would tell me that I talk too much anyway. I’m too sober for all of this.

Julie drops his weight down all over me and on top of me, his hand between us to unzip, and I can’t see past him, and his vessel is just too damn much like Zhune’s, which means this is a bad idea, except there’s no reason it _should_ be a bad idea when I agreed to everything and still, right here and now I don’t want him on top of me and I have no idea how to say that.

You can’t just ask for what you want.

And I want this to be okay. To be exactly what I asked for, entertaining and not particularly meaningful, except that when he starts to push in towards me it is exactly like--I am too sober for this, I cannot _do_ this wide awake on my back in this body, and when I try to pull away I have no footing, nothing to push against except for him above me. (I said this was fine, didn’t I? I meant it then.) I can’t sit up with him there above me and everywhere over me, and my hands slide away behind me and catch on I don’t know what and oh _hell_

I did not mean to break that.

I just needed a way out and there was only away and down, and at least there’s no disturbance to make Zabina pay attention but I’ve broken something that’s not mine again, my right hand buried wrist-deep in shredded cloth and what did I tell Guo? About slow, deep breaths? Because I need that advice. I am not breathing the way I ought to.

Julie sits back on his heels, like there’s this sudden space above me that I don’t know what to do with. “Lee. Leo, shit, are you okay?” The words are the right ones but it doesn’t sound like her, when he’s in this vessel.

How the hell am I suppose to answer that question?

“Yeah,” I say, “I’m fine.” Entirely fine. I’m a better liar than this when I have, I don’t know, time to think or the breath to say more than two words at a time. This is pathetic. This is unreasonable.

“You’re not,” Julie says. That’s not a question. He takes a slow breath that I can’t, looking over the mess that I am.

Then there’s more disturbance, Zabina’s going to _wonder_ at all this, and Julie’s back to being herself. She slides right up next to me, shoving clothes out of the way. “Leo. You’re not okay. I’m sorry, I didn’t know, but I won’t do it again. Okay?” She picks my hand up from the ruins of her clothes, and wraps it between both her hands. Like Lanthano in his office. Hands to hands, not touching me any further than that. “It’s going to be okay.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“I broke something. Of yours. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.” And what’s a demon without self-control? The kind that burns out early in a pile of dissonance, that’s what.

“I don’t care,” Julie says. She pulls my hand up to her face, and kisses my knuckles, keeping her eyes on me the whole time. “It’s just _stuff_ , Lee, sweetie. I can replace it. It’s you that I’m asking about.”

“I’m.” I can’t say _fine_ , it’s such an obvious lie. “That was stupid of me. I’m sorry.”

She lets go of my hand to put her hands to my shoulders. “That wasn’t something you wanted. So we’ve stopped. And it won’t happen again. I should’ve figured it out sooner, anyway.”

“It’s _stupid_ of me.” Like all the space and cold are trying to collapse into something hot in the center of my chest, and I’m not sure it’s safe to let that happen. “It’s just vessels. They’re tools. It shouldn’t fucking matter which one’s involved or what I’m wearing or what anyone else is, and this is so--”

I don’t even have words for it. I want to break something, but I don’t own anything in here. Not even the clothes I was wearing.

“It is what it is,” Julie says. “You can’t make yourself want something that you don’t. Not without Balseraphs or Habbalah, and we don’t keep any of _those_ around. Wait right here.”

She digs through the clothing spread over the bed, a model of brisk efficiency like I haven’t seen her before, until she’s sorted out a small pile. And without any comment, she helps me get dressed again. Jeans pulled back on, a slippery green shirt that’s not mine pulled over my head--I think what I was wearing before was in what I broke--and then a black sweater over that, because my jacket’s missing a sleeve. She lays out my socks and boots in a row by the edge of the bed, and tugs me over to sit there. Then she drops down to the floor to put those back on me.

I don’t want her dressing me, and I don’t want to be naked, and I don’t even _know_ what I want any more. How fucking stupid is that?

“It makes me want to hurt someone,” Julie says, in a conversational tone that’s not exactly light. Just. Straightforward. “I realize that’s not very _practical_ , but sometimes it can make a person feel better. And it’s fair, don’t you think? They hurt you, I hurt them, that settles the matter. Except somehow it never quite fixes things. You need time and distance for that. People who know not to hurt you the same way and restart the whole process.”

“It’s no one else’s fault,” I say. “I have some issues. I’m a demon, we _all_ have issues. And even most of us aren’t dumb enough to have this one.”

“You’re not anyone else, Lee.” She sits beside me on the bed, and laces her fingers into mine. “And I’m pretty sure I know whose fault this is.”

“You can’t blame him for everything. Sometimes other people fuck up around him, and it doesn’t make it his fault, any more than the thing with Henry.”

Julie snorts. “The thing with Henry, right. What did he tell you about that?”

“That Henry made some mistake.” It feels like there was more explanation, but I can’t recall any. I never asked for details, not when it was so clearly something Zhune didn’t want to talk about.

“Some mistake. Sure. Henry made the kind of mistake that destroyed someone’s Role in a way humans had to invent nuclear weapons just to come up with an appropriate simile for it.” She takes a deep breath, and I wonder how much I’ve fucked over her evening already. “They had a simple job, those two. Swipe some human and park her somewhere nice and quiet until we got a few other things done. Delicate, but _simple_. Henry decided to fuck with her head, and it got...really messy, never mind the details, but my best friend couldn’t show his face in that city, practically on that _continent_ , in the same vessel again for decades. You know what isn’t quiet? Every newspaper carrying the story, and on the front page for some of them. We were doing damage control for years, and there were a few humans who got yanked out of their lives or just plain killed because the fallout ran so wide we couldn’t risk letting them talk to the wrong person.”

“And that still doesn’t make it anyone’s fault but Henry’s,” I say.

“That was as much Henry’s fault as this was yours.” Julie shakes her head. “Don’t look at me like that, I’m not angry at _you_. This is what he does to people. Some people say that Zhune picks out the crazy ones for partners, but he doesn’t. He picks out the ones that are a little unusual, and he _makes_ them crazy. Did this ever happen to you before you met him?”

“No, but that’s because I never had a vessel like this before.”

“Let me guess,” Julie says. “The first time you lost one around him--and I bet that happened a lot faster than before, too, and that it was somehow _your fault_ when you did, no matter that he got that job and put you in that place--well, I bet he’s the one who asked for this type, didn’t he?”

“It’s entirely beside the point.” Which it is not, and I hate that she _knows_ these things, can read them across my reactions and Zhune’s history and the fact that there is nothing unusual about me at all. One more partner in a long line of partners that he charms and trains and rescues and breaks and discards when he’s done with them.

“Stay with us,” Julie says. She cups her hands around my head, though I’d be looking at her anyway. “You don’t have to do this again. Not ever.”

“Until it’s useful for a job.” Though humans don’t make me react like that, not even when they’re in that position. Then it’s only work. Humans don’t _count_ , they don’t understand anything.

“Not then. There are plenty of people who can take that job if someone needs to. There’s such a thing as--being sensible, Leo, and it makes _sense_ to take care of employees. Most people work better when they’re happy.” She sighs, and for once there’s nothing melodramatic about it. “We could keep you away from your partner, and from angels, and from all your old enemies, and you could be happy. Is that so hard to believe?”

I wonder if Penny would ever find out what had happened to me, if I did that. It’s not like I send him progress reports as it is. (How’s it going up in Heaven? Same as always here. Robbed a Tether from your side and stabbed a Malakite, hope you don’t mind too much. The Virtue had it coming. Love, Leo.) I cannot imagine calling him while working for _these_ people. Industrial Espionage knows how to listen in on phone conversations.

And because I haven’t come up with a good answer for Julie, that is an answer. Her smile twists, and she leans in to kiss me. Light and sweet and another Essence slipping into me. “You can switch vessels whenever you want,” she says, “but you might want to give it a while longer because of the noise. Do you want company, or would you rather hole up in your room for a while? Trey and Guo won’t be back for ages. I could text Trey and ask him to come back sooner, if you want to talk with him.” 

“I don’t need anything,” I tell her, which is not exactly true, and we both know it. “I’ll go read in my room until I can act more like an adult in front of other people again.”

“You have enough books?”

“Since I worked out how to get Project Gutenberg working on my phone, yes, plenty.”

“Okay. Text me if you need anything. Anything at all, got it?”

“Got it,” I say, because I need to agree to something that makes her feel better so that I can get some space. In a room with a door that closes, and no one else inside.

Zabina doesn’t even look up from her keyboard when I cross over to the other room, grabbing my phone on the way. And Julie doesn’t follow me inside, like I was half expecting, so there’s that. A dark and quiet room with no one but me inside, and no obligations on my time or attention for hours.

I’d rather go walking somewhere, but the weather outside is terrible, and I don’t think I’m really allowed to wander far on my own. Even if no one has said so explicitly.

So what do I do? Pull out my phone and stare at the cracked screen for a while. Run through my memory of a whole series of numbers I’m not going to call. (If I even had a number for Zhune--but I don’t, and what would I say?) Each one’s worse than the last. Everyone I want to talk to right now I shouldn’t, and everyone I should talk to, I’d rather not.

I can’t keep expecting other people to solve my problems for me. That never works.

I end up calling Ash. Who is safe, in almost every sense, and will talk to me about the difficulties of tracking down first printings of the later Oz books--with color plates intact, apparently that’s a thing he cares about now--while I make interested noises at the right moments.

The most inconsequential things can get to me. Makes sense that equally inconsequential things can make me feel more or less okay again.


	34. An Interlude, In Which No One Keeps Secrets

Yuliang ran her hands through her hair, and she _did not_ scream, despite the temptation. A real proper shriek of frustration required better walls or fewer neighbors. Besides, Zee would give her one of those snotty looks, and it’d probably worry the kid. Or worse yet, make the kid think Yuliang was angry at her. Lee twitched away from every hint of disapproval like a decade with one person--Yuliang could hardly imagine a worse fate, day in and day out with the same person all the time and no escaping him, how did anyone _live_ like that?--had taught her that anything short of perfection and happiness was her fault. A reason to get defensive or fix the problem.

Most demons thought the world revolved around them, no escaping _that_ , wouldn’t be much fun to stop believing it entirely, but that was the nasty flipside of it. Taking responsibility for every problem. Which was easy enough to fix with some time and hand-holding, that was _simple_ , but first you had to get them away from what had carved it into their heads in the first place.

She really could scream. But the moment was gone, and now that Zee _was_ looking at her, typing paused, it would be entirely ridiculous to walk back into the bedroom and scream into a pillow.

Besides, there was damage control to do. Updating the local wiki for group reference before someone else made that mistake a second time. She dragged a chair out from the table, and sat on it backwards, arms folded over the back and her chin rested there. A posture for the other vessel, but that’s how she felt. Prickly and angry and frustrated, and sometimes, sure, she did want to wear the other vessel for entirely personal reasons. So that people would worry about _her_ a little. So that the bite wouldn’t come as a complete surprise.

Self-indulgence enough to switch two vessels inside the apartment that soon, and then it had been outright necessity to switch back. And Lee would be running away from that vessel again soon enough, as soon as she dared, poor kid, which meant that playing around with different looks beyond that wouldn’t just get a glare from Zee, it would mean a text from the boss asking what justified that kind of noise.

She would send a memo to Chaixin, of course. But it was better when it was an FYI she sent on her own, not answers pointedly requested. Proactive response to management complications, keeping everyone in a project in the loop, dealing with problems _before_ they came to the boss’s attention, that was the way to look like a leader. Someone who could take on a brand new division and be trusted to run it properly, pushing the Word and swiping what was valuable, without the boss standing nearby to watch over it all.

Someone much better at dealing with people than Zee was.

“What did you break this time?” asked the Lilim. All Lilim were good at significant looks, but Zee in particular had a way of looking at you that wasn’t so much about reading Needs as judging you for them.

“Nothing,” Yuliang said, and discarded several nastier things she could have said, if she didn’t mind being distracted into a fight. Which might have been satisfying, even, a way to work out some of the frustration, but she would be responsible even if it killed someone. (Someone she didn’t like, anyway.) “I found a new place where that fucking asshole broke her. If she’s in the cuter vessel, don’t even try anything in a male vessel.”

“I hadn’t been planning on it,” Zee said, in that dry tone that was all about implying you’d said something idiotic, but at least she was _listening_ , which was the important part.

“Seriously,” Yuliang said. She made a tiny noise of frustration that was nothing like a scream, but helped minutely. “If she’d just told me--but she didn’t, because she didn’t even know how that would trigger her. It’s like trying to dance with a girl who’s been walking on broken toes so long she doesn’t realize there’s anything wrong with them until you step on them, you know?”

“I get the gist.”

“Good.” Yuliang covered her face with her hands, heels of her palms pressed against her eyelids until she saw stars, and that helped too. “I’ll pass it on to Thano, he can keep an eye on Guo. Babysitting is his job anyway. If we didn’t need a Corrupter so badly for this job, I’d ask to have that kid sent back home. He is so lucky Lee didn’t put him through a wall, that one time we left them alone in here.”

“He might learn something from the experience,” Zee said. Her gaze flicked towards the closed door, behind which the Calabite was doing whatever it was she did when recovering from a panic attack. “How bad was it?”

“Bad enough. I owe you replacements for some clothes, and just _pretend_ nothing of yours got resonated into pulp, would you?” Yuliang dropped her hands down to meet Zee eye to eye for that one. “She’s embarrassed enough as it is. She doesn’t need to know that you know, or feel like she owes you something on that account.”

Zee made a gesture that meant agreement. Some people could just _say_ so, and some people had to be dramatically cryptic.

But oh, if people only did what they ought, her job would be easier. She could coax people into fun and not spend so much time coaxing them into basic competence and the right positions for what she needed to do. It was almost enough to make her wonder if the management position was worth it--

Of course, it was worth _everything_. Lanthano might be happy to find a rut and stay there for a century, for centuries to come as far as she could see, but that was hardly a way to do credit to the Marquis and her Word. Chaixin needed employees who would push the Word on and keep on improving, not ones who’d just...sit. She liked him well enough, as a coworker and a friend, but Lanthano needed to wake up one of these days and look at the big picture.

“Do you intend to glower all night,” Zee asked, “or did you have other plans?”

That was halfway towards an invitation. Zee’s invitations always had sharp bits in them, like she couldn’t just set the competition aside for half an hour and act like a decent person. Which was _fine_. One more sign that the Lilim was not cut out for management.

“I _intend_ to glower for about two more minutes, Zee, and then I’ll figure out what to do.” Yuliang left the stupid chair to search the fridge for something worth drinking, but no one had restocked her drinks yet. She’d remind Guo of that the next time he went out, but nicely. Talking about over-sensitive people. “Why can’t we just _steal_ her already?”

“Because if she doesn’t want to be stolen, then she’s not--”

“It was a _rhetorical question_ , Zee. I thought they covered that in those philosophy classes of yours.” Yuliang flopped down on the couch, and propped her feet up on an arm. Head towards the door, and there was the faintest murmur beyond that suggested Lee was on the phone. Either that or talking to herself, which seemed a lot less likely. Maybe she was calling that adorable Free Lilim that Lanthano had mentioned, and that would be a good sign. Talking to friends. (Talking to friends who helped her cheat on her partner, and wasn’t that interesting? Even tangled up and nailed down as the kid was, she wasn’t a complete doormat about it.) “Do you think we could get away with arranging an accident for her partner? She’d be at loose ends. We could walk off with her and no one would argue.”

“If it were that easy,” Zee said, “don’t you think Chaixin would have arranged such an accident by now?”

“I can dream.”


	35. In Which We Talk Philosophy

Sunday afternoon, I get back from a distant lunch with Trey--a taco stand that required a two hour round trip, and I’m still not sure it was worth it--to find the apartment has been overrun with paper. Boxes upon dusty boxes of papers, half unpacked, and they’ve been spread so far across the main room that even Zabina’s standing, her chair covered in three separate paper stacks.

“I have an idea,” Trey says. “How about we go back to the taco place? I think I left my wallet there.”

“Don’t think you’re getting out of this _that_ easily,” Julie says, and drops a box into his arms. “Start sorting.”

Trey shoots a helpless glance at Zabina. “Weren’t we supposed to get these as zip files?”

“That would have been better,” she says, and holds a sheet of paper up to the light. The light shines right through the tiny holes drilled into it by vermin. “However, this is what we have. You already missed the part where we had to load and unload two cars of these boxes, and carry them into the apartment. Perhaps you could join the team, now.”

“I helped!” Guo says brightly, sitting cross-legged in the midst of snowdrifts of paper. He has a stapler in his hand, and a wobbly stack of compiled documents to his side.

Trey says something quiet and sad in another language, then wades right in. “Point me at the salary records, would you?”

I hang my coat up by the door. “Anything I can help with?” I ask Julie, who’s standing nearest. I don’t have to voice the second part. _Or is this junk too secret for me to look at it?_

She actually hesitates in coming up with an answer to that one, which may be a first. “Sorry,” she says briskly, with a smile that’s not so condescending as to be apologetic. Purely to the point. “Would love to have the help, but you’re not cleared for it. We can clear the coffee table for you.”

“That’s fine. I can work in my room.” I have to check under two stacks of paper before I locate my laptop. Its screen hasn’t cracked yet--I’m not sure laptops handle that as well as phones do anyway--though the letters are starting to wear off the keys, and there are terrible smears across the screen. Since I never touch the damn screen, I’m not sure how they got there, but that’s being a Calabite for you.

Inside the bedroom, I sit on the bed with the laptop over my knees, and have to shift around half a dozen times before I find a way to make that comfortable for sitting and typing both. With the lights off and the window blinds open, there’s an odd interplay between the glow from my screen and the gray light falling in. There’s no real sound in the room but my fingers on the keys, and muffled voices through the door. Muffled traffic sounds from the street outside. Something here seems unreal, and I can’t decide if it’s the outside world or my place inside.

An hour’s work gets me a desultory edit of three sections, and one paragraph written on the new section the Marquis asked for. Which is almost done, but awkward as hell to organize, and I keep deleting things and moving subsections around instead of putting anything new into the document.

It all reminds me too much of motel rooms. Which is odd, because it shouldn’t. I’m sober and alone, with a computer on my lap. Three strikes against what usually drives me to boredom. But I’ve gotten used to having other people around where even if I’m not talking to them, it’s an option.

I close the laptop. Work isn’t happening, and there’s no hurry, exactly. I’ll be done in a few more days, and if the Marquis is happy with it then, I’ll go home.

No, I’m not in much of a hurry to finish this.

All of my notebooks are out in the main room, so I take out the tiny one from my wallet, along with the attached pen, and start drawing. The lack of space means I don’t have the room to draw any real blueprints, even the theoretical type, so instead I sketch out impossible staircases and castles in the clouds. Absurdly complex series of traps for tomb entrances. A system of water-driven gates for opening and closing doors in a maze, so that it creates the impression of the maze itself shifting around three steps after you’ve passed an intersection. Nothing I could pull off in the real world, even with the resources for it, but I could do this sort of thing in the Marches.

Once upon a time, I could have stayed in the Marches forever. I had no Heart and no real hunters, and the only people who knew where I was didn’t care. By and large. I could’ve stayed. It would have been entirely reasonable to tell Penny no, and see if Heaven had enough integrity to rescue the kid who was tangled up with Hell because of their angel’s mistakes in the first place.

Didn’t. No point in going over it again.

I’ve drawn the spiral staircase I built the last time I was in the Marches. What a strange trip that was. With me running ahead and Zhune trying to keep up, all the way through, and I wasn’t sure what I was doing half the time, but I still pulled it off.

I don’t have any regrets on that one. That trip hurt in ways I expected and ways I didn’t, and I still owe a debt from it. But it was worth it. Would’ve been worth it even if there hadn’t been a Geas pushing me into the mess, just to see Althea finally get a fraction of what she deserves, and to get her latest assistant away from her. And when I fell out of that place, bloody and weeping, more of a mess myself than the situation was, Zhune caught me.

And some hours earlier than that, he was the one who pushed and pushed and oh, I know the pattern. I have _read_ about this, even if I hadn’t figured it out on my own. This was in the textbook. The pattern is obvious and simple and older than dirt, much like Zhune is. He knew how to push around people like me before our Prince had a coronet.

Dealing with Zhune is like sparring with Regan. Knowing how it works doesn’t keep the blows from landing.

He would be the first one to tell me that promises don’t matter. I can’t make any for him, I shouldn’t make any for myself, I certainly shouldn’t feel obliged to keep them. And yet somehow I don’t think he’d accept that as an excuse if I walked away from him. For people I met two weeks ago? Who are on their company manners, as much as Zhune was when I first met him. When I ran into trouble, Trey listened to everything I told him to do, and he was waiting right where I told him to.

When I run into trouble, Zhune’s at my side or in front of me, and he’ll tell me afterward what an idiot I’ve been for not being more careful. (Even as he’s setting me up to need to be that reckless. Our jobs are always on deadlines and under pressure, no time for too much planning if it’s anything that matters.) He will keep throwing me at these jobs, high-risk high-damage work that’s exciting and, let’s be honest, _fun_ in a way that sitting at a computer is not, right up until it breaks me. Or until I break at the wrong time during the downtime pressures and end up disassembled.

And then he’ll find someone new and do it all over again.

Working for the Marquis might be like being back in Fire. Paperwork and office work. Coworkers and the occasional roommate, a supervisor nitpicking at my decisions. Wasn’t always much fun, but it was functional, and I did enjoy having a Role. (More so in retrospect, when I had the absence of one to compare it to, than I did at the time.) Trey and Julie and Zabina all work in different countries most of the time, different continents in some cases, so if I did take the job--and I won’t, and it hasn’t even exactly been offered, and I won’t because I _promised _Zhune that I would not leave him--it’s not as if I’d be working with these people. Strangers all over again. People who wouldn’t feel so compelled to be friendly if I was already locked in.__

__I don’t think there’s any more option to walk away from employment with the Marquis than there is for deciding to not be Zhune’s partner anymore._ _

__The staircase loops around and around on the paper, spiraling off the edge of the page. I keep saying there’s no option to walk away, but there always is, isn’t there? I walked away from the War--okay, there was some panicked running involved--and that didn’t kill me. Not quite. Walked away from a half-voluntary series of contracts with War, on the other side. When I look back at how my career has gone, I’m pretty good at leaving._ _

__I told Zhune that I wasn’t about to leave him for Penny. I’m not about to leave him for people I trust even less than that._ _

__But, god, I can’t help but _think_ about it._ _

__I fill the notebook with impossible castles and perfect, tiny studio layouts. The front and back of every page, staircases with unreasonably complicated bannisters spiraling away in the edges._ _

__It’s all nonsense._ _

__When the notebook’s full, I tear out the pages one by one, and crumble them into dust in my hand. Nothing that makes a serious mess; that’ll be taken care of the next time the sheets are washed. I tuck the empty cover back into its slot. No doubt the company that sells these would happily sell me replacement notebooks, and Trey would order them for me if I asked. Or offer me a company credit card to do it myself, one to match the ID with my face on it and the library card that make up everything I carry in this wallet._ _

__I met an Ofanite once who would have turned all those pages into tiny bits of origami, but what good is that for keeping secrets?_ _

__I get back to work on the damn report, and have most of the new section set in order by the time Trey comes knocking on the door to tell me dinner isn’t happening tonight because there’s no space to make it or set it out, but we can order in if I’m interested._ _

__I cannot think of anything I want to do less right now than sit in the middle of stacks of papers I’m not allowed to look at, eating pizza and trying to make conversation that’s not about anything too confidential for me to know. Especially when I’d have to keep on pretending not to have figured out anything I have._ _

__But I express it a lot more politely than that to him._ _

__The sorting takes all evening, and all night. Sorting or reading or whatever the hell they’re doing with that much paper. Trey shows up a few times to check on me, with beer and cigarettes and sympathy, and once drags Guo away from the door. Julie drops by with a cheery second apology and a stack of my books, notebooks and reading material both, unearthed as they’ve worked through the papers out there. And everyone smells faintly of dust. It’s a good thing no one here has a complex about Fate._ _

__Guo shows up at the bedroom door at seven in the morning, bright-eyed and holding out my usual Starbucks order. “The coffee table is cleared,” he says, “so you can move back into the main room any time.”_ _

__I’d like to be snide at someone, but he definitely hasn’t earned that. Not today. I take the drink and summon up a politely grateful expression. “All done with the papers?”_ _

__“Mostly done. Zabina said she’d do the final pass. I don’t think she...” He hesitates, and then finishes in a rush, “Anyway, the rest of us are going out to breakfast! Somewhere a ways out, to make sure we get the three-day turn-around. Do you want to come along?”_ _

__“Thanks, but no thanks. I was out today--yesterday, so I’m fine.”_ _

__“Are you sure? Because there’s going to be pancakes and, and things that aren’t pancakes, if you’re not into that? Julie said the restaurant was good, and that there’s usually this huge line but she knows how to skip it, and since we didn’t have dinner we could...talk, and stuff.” He’s trying the big sad eyes on me now, and it’s not going to work. Not in that host._ _

__“I’ve got work to focus on. Go on and have fun.” I’m annoyed at Trey and Julie both, and there is no good reason for me to be. Not a good mood for sitting in a booth with them, and Guo’s chatter, for a leisurely meal._ _

__“If you’re sure--”_ _

__“ _Entirely_ sure, Guo.” I cheat, getting up and putting a hand on his shoulder to push him back out the door. Nicely. “You’ve been working all night, and I spent half of it reading already. _You_ go out with Julie and Trey, and I’ll catch up on my work.”_ _

__Trey gives me a questioning look when I don’t follow the three of them towards the front door, but I shrug back, and he doesn’t press further. There are plenty of things I like about Julie, whether or not that’s wise, but I prefer Trey for how he’s willing to let a refusal stand without questioning it. He’d like me to come along; if I’d rather not, he’ll catch me next time. That simple._ _

__I let out a breath when the door closes behind them. There are still boxes and stacks of paper making a fire trap of the main room, but at least there are places to sit._ _

__And Zabina, seated between two boxes, sorting through an enormous stack of stapled sheets. Most to the box on the left, a few to her right. A tightness around her eyes suggests she is desperately tired of this whole process, which makes me wonder why she volunteered for it. Maybe she used up all her vacation hours on earlier trips._ _

__I set up my laptop in the usual place. Put my hands to the keys. And I am so _very_ tired of this report, of being surrounded by people doing work I’m not allowed to touch._ _

__“Zabina,” I say, “do you want help with that?”_ _

__She pauses, a sheaf of paper held between two fingers. “It’s exceedingly dull.”_ _

__“Looked like it.” I rub the bridge of my nose. Some days I wish I wore glasses, just so I could shove them around. Maybe I’ll pick up a pair for this vessel for the image. “Which is why I offered. But if it’s all sensitive data, I’ll get back to my work.”_ _

__She lays the paper down into the box on her right. “Start with that box,” she says, nodding to one at the end of the dining table. “Check the date in the top right corner. By the stapled set, not on each sheet. Pull anything with a date between the first and twelfth of May from 2008. Any other papers go back in the box for shredding.”_ _

__I pull up a chair by the box. “Does this shredding involve Guo pulling staples back out of every single set of paper, and running them sheet by sheet through a shredder?”_ _

__“That was the plan.”_ _

__“Despite having two Calabim on the same floor.”_ _

__Zabina arches an eyebrow. Nice facial control. I don’t think I could pull off that look in either vessel. “Do _you_ mean to ask a Marquis to shred her own paperwork?”_ _

__I hold up a sheaf of paper dated to 2009. “You really want this destroyed?” She nods fractionally. I let the paper dissolve in my hand, and I took care to hold it over the box. “Though I’d get a headache if I tried to do it all individually. I can take care of them by the box.”_ _

__“It’s far more efficient,” Zabina says. I suspect I’ve just been paid a compliment._ _

__After three minutes of work, my hands are grimy and I have a system. It barely requires thought. Lift, glance, sort. Over and over and over, and the minutes slip away in near silence, with nothing but the sound of paper on paper and the breathing of two people in a quiet room._ _

__This must be what working for Fate is like. Paper and silence and the time slipping away. It ought to be dull, and yet there’s a soothing aspect to the sheer predictability of every move. No need to stand up, or even look up, until I’ve finished a box and have to pick out another. No need to think about what I see or what I do unless I hit a set of paper where some form of decay has made the date less legible._ _

__Halfway through, Zabina takes away the box I’ve just finished, and replaces it with a glass of wine._ _

__“Isn’t it a bit early for drinking?” I ask her, and stretch my arms over my head. Vessels aren’t quite so fragile or prone to decay as human bodies, but apparently I can make myself sore by sitting in the same position for too long. I wonder if vessels can actually get RSI._ _

__“It’s noon,” she says, and sits down with her own glass of wine. “Take a break.”_ _

__I check my watch, which has acquired a slight degree of wear that merely looks it look functional, and hasn’t yet broken it. Swapping out the bands regularly does seem to help. “Hell. It is. I expected the others back by now. Amazingly distant brunch location, or making excuses not to come back until this part of the work is done?”_ _

__“The second by way of the first.” We’re at right angles to each other at this table, and for once she’s looking over me directly. Enough so that I’m only now realizing how seldom she does so, unless it’s a brief glance to be followed by a critique aimed at who she’s chosen to focus on. I’m not at my best in the fashion department right now, having sprawled around on the bed all night in these clothes. That, and I’m wearing one of Trey’s shirts again. (He shouldn’t wear button-down shirts anyway. They don’t look as good on him as the t-shirts.) “How are you doing on the language tapes?”_ _

__“Slowly. I’ve been at them a week and a half, and if I asked for directions in Mandarin, I’m not sure anyone would understand me, or that I’d understand the response, either. And I haven’t had time to study many of the characters, so I’m functionally illiterate when it comes to anything other than reading signs pointing towards bathrooms or airports.”_ _

__“How far did you expect to get in that time?”_ _

__“I don’t know. Further?”_ _

__Zabina smiles. It’s a flickering expression, there and gone. “You’ve never learned languages the old-fashioned way, have you.”_ _

__“I always considered having the knowledge imprinted on your mind by a Prince to _be_ the old-fashioned way.” I pick up my wine, and note with a distant sort of amusement that I am ever so careful not to slouch when I’m talking to her. Doesn’t really matter what she thinks of me, and I care anyway, at least a little. That’s probably a symptom of one of my many personal failings. “But, no. Not exactly. When I went through college, they gave me transcripts that let me skip taking any further language classes. It was considered unnecessary.”_ _

__“That was with Fire, or the War?”_ _

__“Fire. I didn’t sign up with the War until later.” I didn’t sign up at all, strictly speaking, but never mind the details._ _

__“That was short-sighted of them.”_ _

__“I don’t know. Not having another language beyond English didn’t seem to slow me down much, when I was doing work for them. Maybe if they’d wanted me to go stand on a construction site and talk to the workers, Spanish would’ve been useful, but that wasn’t what they trained me for.” I take a sip of the wine. Dry and smoky, and barely recognizable as having come from a fruit. “How long should it take to pick up a new language?”_ _

__“Simple question, complicated answer. That would depend on who’s learning it--their intelligence and talent and focus--but also on which language they’re learning, what method of instruction or immersion they have available, how much opportunity they have for conversation in it, what other languages they know.” She tilts her glass minutely in my direction. “If I took you to Paris for a month, you’d be speaking passable French by the end of that time, and reading it easily with occasional dictionary reference. Mandarin would take you longer, even with immersion. It bears far less resemblance to English, and there’s the writing system to learn from scratch.”_ _

__“Can’t see myself getting a lot of use out of French, regardless.” I drink the wine to be polite, and try to map out the trajectory of this conversation. Zabina hasn’t taken much interest in me since she delivered me here, except to comment on my clothing or computer equipment. (Which I suspect she sees as tools of equal utility and interest.)_ _

__“Utility is what you make of it, Leo. If you had the language, you would find uses for it, even if only for reading a few more classic novels in their original language.”_ _

__“How did you pick up your languages?”_ _

__It’s a change of topic, but she accepts it gracefully. “A few of the early ones by imprinting. Others through books and tutors, followed by conversation with native speakers. Some through immersion alone. Spend three hundred years in a place, and you’ll learn more dialects than those spoken in court. Then lose them again, as they die out with the standardization of education and the spread of global entertainment sources.” She’s allowed her posture to relax slightly, and I think that in any public space, or space that might abruptly become public--anywhere that more than one or two people are likely to suddenly see her--she is never more than _slightly_ out of alignment with her perfect forms. It’s an advantage of being celestial rather than human; you’re never hungry or sleepy or awash with hormones in a way that turns off your ability to act as you mean to. At least in theory._ _

__“I would ask how many languages you know, but half-forgotten dialects probably makes the answer complicated again.”_ _

__She shrugs. “As does defining ‘know’ in a precise and mutually intelligible manner. Call it a dozen, and you’d have a useful number for reference.”_ _

__“And I have two. But you’re a lot more than six times older than I am, so by languages per decade, I’m still ahead.”_ _

__“Let’s not play that game,” she says, “or we’ll have to talk about how many vessels you’ve lost per decade.” But I’ve acquired a glimmer of a smile again, and that’s satisfying. (Whatever Zhune says, I’m not incompetent at dealing with other demons. Just with his friends.) “Have you ever been to Europe?”_ _

__“Does London count?”_ _

__“No.” Her head tilts a little, and I know that look, if from other people. Considering me from another angle of the mind, and it translates to vision in its own way. “Never once to Paris? Florence? Venice? There’s a Tether of Theft in Dresden to make a day trip of that city.”_ _

__“The only Tether we really use is in the one in Chicago. I don’t get to Stygia much.”_ _

__“Why not? You’re not Bound anymore.” Information that’s not exactly widely spread, and she has it, and she’s willing to let me know that she has it. Not sure how to take that yet._ _

__“Why should I go to Stygia? There’s nothing to do and I don’t know anyone.”_ _

__Once I’ve said that, I realize it’s not true. There’s a theater in Stygia I’d love to sit in for hours, and I wouldn’t mind an extended conversation with the Impudite who owns it. Or even the demonling working the counter there, if I could convince her to stop flinching away from my presence. There are lectures, even aimed at the Factions crowd, and I’ve heard rumors of fascinating libraries hidden away in the Monastery that it might be worth paying for access to._ _

__It’s only that there’s nothing for me to do there that I feel safe doing by myself, and that Zhune would let me do on my own for much time at all._ _

__“One of these days,” Zabina says, “send me a message--you do have one of my email addresses--and we’ll make a day of it in Dresden. You would enjoy some the architecture there, as well as the food.”_ _

__I’ve come to the end of my glass of wine, while she’s still only halfway through hers. It’s not supposed to go down as fast as beer. One more sign that I’m not particularly cultured, I guess. “You know that I’m not staying.”_ _

__“You’ve made that clear, and you have no reason to lie to us about your intentions there. Julie and Trey let themselves be misled by their own hopes. I prefer to keep a clear head.” She leans over to refill my glass. “If Chaixin cared to force the matter, she would. She will not. She prefers not to take on unwilling employees.”_ _

__“Why did you join her?” It’s an impolite question. If I don’t ask her now, I doubt I ever will._ _

__Zabina tops off her own glass. “Why do you think I joined her?”_ _

__“Greed took a sharp dive, and in the process you got--” There’s really no elegant way to put this. “--seriously fucked over. Probably by the people directly above you, and in a way you didn’t deserve. Enough so that it seemed safer to jump to another Word than try to ride it out in the place you’d always been before, and...I’ll bet the Marquis approached you in person, didn’t she? You get extra consideration for being a Lilim, but she also likes doing that personally, when she’s pulling in someone new. With an offer good enough that you were grateful for the chance, but not so good that you were paranoid about what the catch was.”_ _

__“Daosheng,” Zabina said. “Not Chaixin. A Marquis, and not...well. I suppose it is _the_ Marquis now, in this place.” Her expression reveals nothing of what she feels about this, and that’s information too. “It’s a good guess.”_ _

__“I heard some from Trey. Besides, it’s the pattern, isn’t it? They don’t recruit people who are already happy.”_ _

__“That would be inefficient.” A smaller shrug than before. “You can make people leave bad situations, but then it’s so much work to keep them. I’ve known enough women who ran back to the men who hurt them, time and again, to know that. Simpler to wait for them to leave on their own and approach those who have been waiting all along.”_ _

__She pauses a moment, as if I might have a comment to add. But what am I supposed to say to that? I’m not about to deny that Zhune’s a terrible person at times. It’s not the same as what she describes, but there’s no use to be gotten from arguing the point._ _

__“Why did you join Theft, Leo?”_ _

__I take a gulp of my wine. It’s not to my taste at all, but it’s better than black coffee. “When a Prince is standing in front of you, and asks you a question, it’s time to give him whatever fucking answer he wants.”_ _

__“What would you have preferred?”_ _

__I’d glare at some people for that one. Her, I just give a tired look. “Is it ever safe to answer that question?”_ _

__She flicks it away accordingly. “What do you want, Leo?”_ _

__“Nothing that’s good for me.”_ _

__“Very few people,” she says, “are any good at getting what they want. Take that from a Lilim who knows it as truth. Humans are full of contradictory desires, and too easily distracted to pursue a long-term goal, even aside from their frailties. Demons are usually too short-sighted.”_ _

__“And surrounded by people who’ll cut them off at the knees at the slightest provocation. What about angels? Do they have the magic route to getting what they want?”_ _

__Zabina thinks about this one for a moment. “They seek to do their duty,” she says, “and some of them also desire that. Wanting what you already have, or what’s required of you, is one path to satisfaction.”_ _

__“So the trick to getting what you want is to settle for what you already have.”_ _

__“It’s one path,” she says. “I prefer other routes. Patience and foresight. An ability to compromise, never deployed too early. A desire for several things, so that even partial success might satisfy.”_ _

__“And what if you want several things that are mutually exclusive? How do you pick one to focus on?”_ _

__“There are methods and methodologies. The simplest is to choose the one that you can most easily acquire, and discard those that contradict it.” She lays a hand on the table, beside her wineglass. “I want to keep you, Leo. In the company, and working with me. Any sister of mine could see that. I am entirely willing to be patient in this matter. Should it never come to pass, then I will be disappointed, and continue to pursue other desires.”_ _

__She glances into her wine, then back to me. “Julie believes that I have gone amiss in not making this clear to you. I believe she underestimates your ability to read other people. You will not stay with us because I asked you to. You will walk back to that partner of yours, who keeps you in a terrible state and hasn’t the wit to take you sightseeing in Dresden, and remain there until something changes. I expect either you’ll finally run back to us, or you’ll die.”_ _

__Zabina fills my glass again. So I suppose I’ve been drinking from it. There’s a faint buzz in my head, nothing that would justify what I’ve been saying here._ _

__“There are other possibilities,” she says. “Those are the two that are most likely. What do you want?”_ _

__Penny would know if I were telling the truth. She won’t. Which makes me perversely more willing to speak the truth, or the truth as I understand it. (Penny would know the difference, and on that point, _I_ won’t.) I drink more from the glass than I should. “I want to stop leaving.”_ _

__“Leaving what?”_ _

__“Anything. Everyone. I want to _stop_ , and look at the end of this contract, Zabina. No matter what door I pick--and you’re right about what I’m choosing--I’ll be walking away from someone who wants me to stay.”_ _

__“What other people want,” she says, “is only relevant if it’s useful to you.”_ _

__“I end up caring what other people think of me, sometimes. It’s a terrible habit. Maybe I’ll grow out of it.” I finish the latest round of wine, and move the glass away before it can be refilled again. Drinking two thirds of a bottle of wine on an empty stomach is not a route towards anything I want right now, I know _that_ much. “If I finish all the sorting and shredding, will you read through my reports, and tell me how they hold up to the Marquis’s standards?”_ _

__“Certainly.” She sits back with her glass of wine while I move her boxes to my side of the table, and then bring her my laptop._ _

__That’s the end of conversation for another hour or so. At which point I discover that several boxes I expected to need to sorting have already been marked for destruction, so all I have to do is resonate two dozen boxes of paper into mulch over a series of trash bags. Those I line up by the door for Guo to take to the compactor; there are limits to how many chores I’m willing to take on for him._ _

__Zabina beckons me over when the last bag is down by the door._ _

__“Let me guess,” I say, as I pull out a chair to sit beside her at the table. “You have some edit suggestions.”_ _

__“A few,” she says. The top of my report stares at us. “Do you know how to find the locus for the Dresden Tether in Stygia?”_ _

__“Where it is, no. Pretty sure I can ask around if it’s a major one, though.”_ _

__“If you decide to leave,” she says, “pick that one, and contact me.” She scrolls down to the table of contents. “Let’s discuss your organizational system. It’s adequate, but it could be better.”_ _

__And we’re still arguing over that when everyone else gets back to the apartment._ _


	36. In Which I Become Exceedingly Damp

I’m in the middle of a meticulous final proofreading pass when Julie sits down on the coffee table beside my laptop. “Lee, you look bored.”

“Mm?” I drag my eyes away from another comma placement decision. Most likely this will be translated into other languages by indifferent third parties, and it doesn’t matter what my punctuation is like if it’s reasonably clear, but Zabina certainly thought it needed one more pass. “Not so much bored as busy, Julie.”

“There’s no rush,” Julie says. “You can finish that any time. And you’ve been staring at the computer for something like a day straight, now. Want to get out for a while?”

“Maybe when I’m done with this proofing pass.” My legs are cramping and my shoulders ache, but I am so close to _done_. Though my focus is shot now that I’m having a conversation instead of staring at the screen. “Did you need something, or just looking for company?”

“She’s looking for backup,” Trey says from the couch behind me. He rolls over and forward to rest his elbows on my shoulders, his chin on the top of my head. “Right?”

Julie rolls her eyes. “Yes, but that’s no reason why it can’t be fun, too.”

I glance at the window. The rain’s beating so hard against the glass that I can hear it from where I’m seated. “Could it wait an hour?”

“Nope!” Julie springs to her feet. “Would you come along? We can go somewhere you like after this. It’s just a quick little hand-off somewhere quiet. No Tethers of _any_ kind nearby this time, I swear.”

“If you stare at that screen any longer,” Trey says, “your eyes will melt out.” I can hear the smile in his voice, even if I can’t see it. “You want more help, Julie, or is three a crowd?”

“Three is enough to spook my contact,” Julie says. “All I need is one person on call in case something gets weird.”

Trey slides off me, with a squeeze on my shoulder. “Pick up more beer while you’re out? We don’t have anything interesting in the fridge.”

“Well, as long as I’m being volunteered for the chores...” But I don’t exactly mind, even if the interruption was unwanted. There’s a certain pleasant familiarity in the way they assume I’ll be helpful when it comes to team efforts.

I leave Julie the job of figuring out where all the umbrellas have gone, and pick up the car keys from Zabina myself for the least possible hassle. We’re out the door in ten minutes, and most of that delay involved Julie changing her mind about what shoes she wanted to wear.

“The problem,” she says, checking out her look in the mirror on the sun visor, “is picking the right look.” As there’s no sun visible that might need blocking, I don’t mind if she wants to use that for her own purposes. “Too casual, he thinks I’m not taking this seriously. Too formal, he gets intimidated, wonders if I’m actually a Game front. Too frumpy, he’s not so easily charmed. Too sexy, he doesn’t take _me_ seriously.”

“I still don’t think he’d notice your shoes.” I’m keeping to a sedate pace in this rain, with the wipers at full speed. “How close do you want me to be?”

“Not too close. If he thinks he’s getting jumped, he’ll bolt, and I’ll have to start all over.” She examines her hair critically in the mirror. “I should’ve brought a hair tie, that gives me more options. Too late to turn around now. How about you stay in the car?”

“I don’t like that. If you call for help, that has me getting out of the car, crossing all the way over to the building--in this rain--and making my way inside. Even if you leave the door unlocked and the alarm off, that’s not fast.”

“I’m not expecting any trouble, Lee.”

“But there’s enough chance of some that you brought me along, so at least think about my advice. I’ve been jumped too often at hand-offs to treat them casually.” I tap the horn as a car skids by. “How can someone with Washington plates _not_ know how to drive in the rain?”

“Humans are terrible drivers,” Julie says philosophically. “Unfortunately, most of the people on the road are human, so there’s no escaping them. Oh! Turn right here, we can park in the garage.”

We leave the car in the garage, and make our way to the exit nearest the building where Julie is meeting someone from Tech. It’s at the exit that I discover Julie only brought one umbrella. And since she’s the one who needs to look right for the meeting, it’s all hers.

“I’m really sorry,” she says, wide-eyed and sincere and cheerful as ever. “I thought you’d just stay in the car! You still can--”

“It’s water. I don’t melt.” I shove my hands in my jacket pockets, and wish I’d brought gloves. “Can I follow you inside without running into this guy?”

“Sure. We’re twenty minutes early, and he’s coming in through another door. He’s using a host who has access. The whole place should be clear and dark, so there _really_ won’t be any angels this time.”

“I don’t doubt you.” I stare up at the skies, or what I can see of them through the rain. “Let’s get this done.”

I’m wet the instant I step through the doorway. Soaked before I’ve crossed the street, and by the time we’ve reached the back door Julie has a key for--she hasn’t mentioned how she got that, or the security system’s code, but Magpies all have their own secrets for acquiring these things--my shoes are sloshing. We walk into the dark, dry hallway and the chill hits me fast through all that wet cloth.

Julie shakes out the umbrella, and leans it by the door. “Let me show you where we’re meeting, and where he’ll be coming from.”

When it comes to quiet places to meet someone privately, I prefer motel rooms. Or, if everyone insists on multiple entrances and exits, empty houses and abandoned buildings. That’s when a classic dark alley isn’t at hand, and maybe those are hard to come by in Seattle.

Julie and her contact have picked some sort of ancient mall down on the water, not far from the aquarium. Even in this weather, they must’ve been doing business earlier in the day. Now the place is shut down for the night, with carefully antiquated stores of tourist-trap knick-knacks standing dark on each side of the wide halls. There’s an entire carousel inside.

Julie swings herself up onto an old wooden horse, and sits there sideways, legs crossed. “He’ll be showing up from right over there,” she says, and points. “Weedy little guy, because of the host. He’s nervous enough as it is, so you really need to stay out of sight. No spooking him!”

“I’ll go stare at the souvenir shot glasses.” I’d like to strip off this coat, and have fewer layers of clammy material sticking to my skin, but it wouldn’t make me any less cold. “No spooking.”

Five minutes later I _am_ bored, and fidgety. There’s nothing worth looking at in these places, with everything from old-fashioned wooden toys to novelty earrings being strictly aimed at the tourist crowd. That, and it makes my instincts about getting out of a job without incriminating evidence left behind twitchy to leave wet footprints everywhere I walk. I’m not even quiet, due to all the squishing sounds.

I circle back around through the halls until I find a place where I can watch the carousel, and the line of approach Julie’s contact will be coming from. I can’t see her--I’m on the wrong side of the carousel for that--except as an occasional flicker of movement over there. But I have a nice dark patch in a recessed doorway marked for employees only that lets me watch them without being easily seen, and there’s further down the hall for me to retreat if anyone gets too close.

It reminds me of a few jobs with Zhune. Usually he plays the front man, because he’s good with people. Sometimes it’s me, because people relax around the cute little thing, even people who ought to know better. (Especially if Zhune shoves me into a new shirt and trims my hair and keeps anyone from noticing that I’m a Calabite, on those ones.) But I like this version better. Hanging out in the dark, to see if anything will happen.

Usually, nothing happens.

The contact shows up right on time. Julie said “weedy little guy,” while I’d call him more lanky and prone to hunching, but he has a nervous strut that seems about right. Whatever he’s brought for her is small enough to hold in his pockets. Or maybe it’s entirely in his head. (His host’s head, or wherever you think of a Shedite as living inside of a host.) He’s not carrying anything, and he makes small, nervous gestures with his fingers against his pants as he walks.

He crosses the floor, disappearing behind the carousel, and Julie’s voice raises up in greeting. Light, but not _too_ light. Welcoming but professional. She has it down to a science, as much as anything I went to college for. As much as Zhune can pickpocket and open locks without breaking stride. These people are Theft, as much as anyone else I’ve met, no matter how unusual their approach. Find a mark and soak him. One way or another.

Their conversation is too quiet for me to make out words, only tone. He’s worried. She’s reassuring, with a slight twist of pressure when he seems likely to balk. I crouch down, elbows on my knees, and listen to that as well as the rest of the mall. Even deep in the center of this place, the rain hammering down outside is a constant distant chatter.

And there’s a flicker of shadow in the wrong place. Not where they are. Which could be anything, a draft snapping a sign around, a failing light bulb.

The easy solution: sing up Ethereal Form. Walk over there and find out what it is. No one at the carousel would notice for an instant.

But when the Song wears off, there’s disturbance, and that Shedite might hear it. Would almost certainly bolt on hearing it, if he’s all that nervous. If I move far enough away that he wouldn’t hear it, that’s pretty much outside the building, and if Julie needs help--

I’m overthinking it. Neither of them can see me from where they’re standing, and this room is dark. I leave the door, and just...walk over there. Sticking to the shadows, steady and slow. Up against the wall where I know the line of sight from shop windows and the hallway at that side don’t reach.

Right up to a certain point, where I can’t get any nearer the flicker--which is not any flicker at all, now, so that I could almost think I’d imagined it, but I know myself better than that--without walking through a blocky patch of dim light from a shop window.

Half of me says _hide and wait_ and half of me says _dash across now while no one is looking_ , and then the first half points out to the second that if there is anyone looking then the dashing would be a bad idea. Except that if it’s a fourth person in the mall, they’re not supposed to be there, and maybe I do want to run into them before they run into anyone else.

Because if there’s a fourth person in here, they are definitely _not on our side_.

The conversation is still winding its way through the back and forth of those two voices. Julie’s winning, whatever might be at stake. They are not in any position to look this way.

I step into the light, and see the man lurking inside the shop a fraction of a second before he sees me.

Now. There are certain body types that are associated most with certain types of celestials. Balseraphs and Seraphim share a tendency towards the tall and narrow types, elegant or sharp. Mercurians and Impudites want to be the pretty people, all else aside. Djinn and Cherubim look like they can take a punch and give one back. It’s not always a perfect match--my girly vessel doesn’t make me an Impudite, and Zhune’s mistaken for a Balseraph now and again--but it’s a useful rule of thumb. And what I think is that we’re looking at a Djinn of Technology who should not be here.

The part where I peg him as belonging to Technology is pretty easy, though. He’s sighting down a weapon that you can’t buy from ordinary mortal vendors, though I once had an early version of it stashed in my closet. A sweet vicious rifle that I once used to take out a Malakite, and this _really_ isn’t a good time for nostalgia, because Julie has not told me anything about what’s going down here, and yet I am sure she does not want her contact--or herself--shot by this man.

Anyway. All that aside, he spots me an instant after I spot him, and the rifle swings my way.

I drop to the ground, and reflect on the difficulty of not spooking that damn Shedite now while a shot cracks out overhead.

Safety glass showers around me. If I needed to take a shot at someone I wouldn’t shoot through glass--but especially at this close range, it’s not likely to affect the aim. Somewhat beside the point. I ignore any sounds from Julie and her mark, since neither of them sounds like they’ve been hit, and call up Ethereal Form.

It doesn’t want to cooperate today. _Fine._ I can do this without being invisible. I grab the edge of the broken window--uncomfortable but not piercing, thank you safety glass and building codes dictating its use--and swing myself into the shop. Keeping low and rolling in fast, while the Djinn swings his rifle up for another shot--not at me, at _them_ , but I’m finally close enough to shove my resonance into the weapon itself.

Sturdy thing. It doesn’t crumble, but makes a scraping noise of metal jamming against metal the next time he pulls the trigger. People are running, off by the carousel, but _away_ , not towards us. Good.

The Djinn kicks down the shelf between us, and swings the rifle towards me again. Less good.

If I had Zhune at hand, I’d keep this demon distracted until _my_ Djinn could jump him. As it is, all I need to do is hold him away from Julie until I can go invisible and run for it. (Throwing all my Essence into teleporting away is iffy and overkill both, and it’s far too early for that. I don’t want him catching up with her.) So instead of bolting--I’d like to bolt--I try another dose of resonance on his weapon, and back away.

“That was a bad idea,” says the Djinn calmly, even as the barrel of his rifle decays. He stalks towards me, while I back away. “Do you think I can’t catch up with it later? You should have saved yourself the trouble and stayed away.”

“Well, that’s me,” I say, stepping my way between racks of shirts with Seattle stamped on them in a variety of boring fonts. “Always getting into trouble. Have you considered _not_ shooting at people?”

He shoves the rifle into a holster on his back. “When I get my hands on you,” he says conversationally, “you’re going to regret that.”

I wonder how much the Marquis cares about keeping this operation quiet? And for what values of quiet? “If,” I say. There’s nothing behind me now but checkout and display counters. A wall to my right, a wall behind those counters... I slide to the left with an eye towards the window there.

This would be less worrisome if the Djinn were running. But no. A steady pace toward me, like he isn’t worried in the slightest about me getting away.

“When,” says the Djinn. “If you had more firepower, you’d have brought it out. More support? It would be here. You’re stalling, and if you want to try to resonate me, you’re welcome to try, Freak.”

I shove my hands into my wet pockets, and smile brilliantly at him. “Why would I want to do that when we could chat?”

I duck away from the first punch. The second one clips my shoulder and that’s enough to slam me back against the wall. Chaixin will have to _live_ with a little noise, because I erase the window to my left and roll outside onto the covered walk around the mall before punch number three can land and make my day worse.

The Djinn’s out the window an instant afterward. Fast on his feet, but landing heavily. The wood creaks beneath his impact. “What did you expect to accomplish with that?” he asks.

I sing myself invisible, and bolt. If Julie couldn’t get some space between herself and the Djinn, and catch up with her mark, it’s not because I wasn’t doing my job.

And fucking hell the Djinn is _following_ me. It’s not pure invisibility, this Song. Shadow and lack of substance, a glimmer in the corner of the eye, but some people can spot me even so. Usually it’s angels. This time it’s a Djinn of Technology, and that’s not fair at all. Who expects them to be _observant_?

Ahead of me, an inconvenient series of metal rails lay out a line for--something, it’s hard to make out signs in this rain, but something about cruises, with a ticket booth right up by the edge of the pier. I take a sharp right before I can get pinned between Djinn and water.

The terrible reality of right triangles: the hypotenuse is shorter than the sum of the two other sides. Escaped one trap, lost what little lead I had on the Techie, and he’s gaining on me. Aren’t demons of Technology supposed to be all about the wild schemes and not so much with practical athletic maneuvers?

But I’m a Calabite who can’t throw much of a punch and who is failing to outrun a god damn computer programmer, so who am I to talk?

There’s another long building ahead, part of a longer pier, with equally kitschy shops. If I can make it to a door and blast my way inside, I can disappear into proper shadows. The rain, despite what it ought to be doing to visibility, isn’t helping any; even if I’m more or less see-through with this Song up, the water’s hitting me and bouncing off in a visible way that air doesn’t. I had to find the one sharp-eyed Djinn of Technology in the city. No wonder he was sniping.

(I can almost wish I’d hesitated longer. Let that first shot be taken, and then tried to jump him with Julie helping, and no fleeing Shedite for her to chase down. Unless he was aiming at her, and I’d have been in even worse luck, and I should probably call her for help but I’m _busy_ and don’t know the Song well enough to get it off with any certainty without more Essence than I want to spend while a Djinn’s six yards behind me, and maybe she wouldn’t come, anyway. I’d like to think she would, but she has a job to do, and I’m not it.)

(Almost, but not quite, because even if saving her isn’t really my job, I don’t want to fuck over people I like who are counting on me. Which is how I end up in situations like these time and again, when other demons don’t.)

My shoes aren’t terrible for running, but nothing is very good for running in this weather. The boards are slick with water, the rain coming down so fast that it’s built up a steady smear of liquid even across all these boards with cracks between them for drainage. No one else is idiot enough to be out in this weather around a set of dark shops closed for the night. If I could move to the right, get out of this dead-end trap I’m being herded into--but he hits like Zhune does, and he can see me, damn it all. Bet he holds on just as tightly, which means trying dodge past him is a bad plan.

He’s too good at herding. Every time I try to edge nearer a place where I can get to a door, he cuts closer. Not quite breathing down my back, near enough that I could resonate (if I had a moment to concentrate, but what _on_?), not near enough to grab me yet, and the end of the pier is approaching.

I know for a fact that I’m not very good at swimming, and the seawater (baywater?) is choppy with wind and rain. But there are spaces under the pier with darker shadows to hide in and room yet for breathing, if--

He hits me so hard from behind that I slam onto the boards, my face into the water and a jolt up and down my legs from where my knees smashed against the floor. I have more leverage in this vessel than my smaller one, and it’s nowhere near enough to throw him off once he’s pinning me down.

The Djinn has hands large enough to slam my face against the ground again with one hand to the back of my head. (Could resonate that out of the way, it’d hurt less, but then there’s a hole beneath me, and would I rather chance drowning than be beaten to a pulp? Maybe. Gotta think about that choice, and fast.) 

“Tell me who you’re working for,” he says calmly. “I’ll still kill you, but it’ll hurt less.”

“Go to hell,” I say, in my best imitation of cheerful nonchalance. My face hits the boards again, and he holds me there, water streaming into my nose. Still breathing but it’s getting a lot less fun.

“You’re a Calabite, so it can’t be Heaven,” the Djinn says, which just goes to show what he doesn’t know about War’s use of semi-willing outside contractors. “But you’re Fire, so you could be with anyone. They don’t have anything against us, so it must be someone else. Who are you working for?” He lifts my head up by the hair so I can breathe clearly for an instant. “You think I can’t make this hurt more?”

“So I made this deal with Flowers after a massive bender on Creationer beer,” I say brightly, and when he slams my head down again, I remove the boards in the way.

The metal bracing hits me on the way down, but all in all, I’d say it was worth it. I fall into the water first, because his instinct was to grab for support when the floor went away, and mine wasn’t.

The Djinn splashes down an instant after me. He’s too damn fast. In the Marches, I could murder him in a straight fight, and do a lot to make sure no fight ran straight. In Hell, I could hold my own. Down here on the corporeal, I am well and thoroughly fucked against someone anywhere near as tough as Zhune is.

Waves surge around me. Nothing clean and white-capped like at a beach, but a choppy mess of water that’s doing its best to run me into every piece of support structure beneath this pier as it can manage. The water could be two meters deep or ten, here, and I couldn’t tell the difference from where I’m standing. Swimming. Flailing, let’s be honest, and moving towards open water where I can take my chances with the bay instead of with the Djinn. The water has nothing against me _personally_ , which is a point in its favor right now.

The water does mark out the space I’m occupying, but in this churn and near darkness--not much of the light from street lights makes it past the hole I broke in the boards--the Djinn’s finally hesitating again. His head swings back and forth, trying to spot me, while I try to stay afloat and breath quietly and not make any startled sounds when the waves slap me against something metal again. (I’m bleeding as well as bruised, and starting to wonder if hypothermia can do in a vessel. At least I’m in no danger of catching on fire.)

I’m making pathetic progress back toward open water. There’s a Djinn to dodge around, and I can’t see _him_ very well either in this environment, without even a Song to justify it on his part. The water wants to hug every solid structure it can find, and bring me along with it. And my fingers are going numb. Water-soaked clothing isn’t helping anything.

I kick off my shoes, later than I should’ve thought of that. Open water is getting no nearer to me, and for all that I affect a casual approach to vessel maintenance, I don’t want to drown. Not in _this_ vessel. I hate the dark and quiet and silent memory loss of Trauma, waking up in Stygia with Zhune waiting to tell me what I did wrong. (But he doesn’t. Why would I expect him to? I’m always good enough at spotting my own mistakes without any need for him to point them out. And it’s always my fault when I lose a vessel, somehow it’s always _my_ fault.) Time for a quiet exit, stage left, along the wall I can’t escape from anyway. They’re bound to have installed an access ladder somewhere around here for when small children, careless adults, and idiot Calabim like me inevitably fall in the water.

The Song wears off me, and disturbance echoes out. Fuck.

An arm snakes around my waist; the Djinn pulls me down. Beneath the surface, into darkness and churning and no clear sense of up or down or sideways, while I hold my breath and try to sort through my options quickly. Essence reserves: low. (Should’ve asked Trey for a refill before I set out, and why didn’t I? Because I’m not used to asking people for Essence. He would’ve offered if he’d known how little I had.) Going invisible is reliable but useless at this point. Calling for help costs too much Essence to make it work if I have to do it quickly, and there’s no knowing if it would help.

I throw the rest of my Essence into Celestial Motion, and for an instant the Song almost catches in the Symphony. A line of music to carry me from here to there, where “there” is anywhere other than caught underwater by the Djinn.

 _Almost_ being the important word.

Can’t even feel if I’m connecting when I try to kick the bastard, between the debris in the water and my feet numbing now too. My vision’s graying out when he hauls me up into the air to gasp in front of him.

“Who are you working for?” he asks steadily. I can barely hear him under the roar of water on water on steel and cement, and wind sweeping it through.

“Like you’d be able to tell if I gave you the truth.” It’d sound more defiant if I weren’t coughing up water through the sentence.

“Probably not,” he admits. “I suppose it would be simplest to take you back to a quieter place for an interrogation with more tools at hand.” Or something like that, I’m losing words to the noise around us.

My chances of slipping away from him are better out of the water than in. Maybe. Probably? Couldn’t be much worse. “Whatever makes you happy.”

“Or,” he says, “it might be easier to kill you now, and search your body for information.”

It warms my heart slightly to realize that I’m not carrying anything incriminating. My fake ID and library card won’t lead him to a single lead. (This water can’t be any good for my watch, but that’s probably not the most important thing for me to worry about right now.) Though I’d rather not go down as easily as all that.

I give resonating him an honest shot, one attempt to see through my Discord into how his throat could shred apart as easily as the boards above did. He shrugs it off. Leaving me with a mind full of churning destruction that has to go _somewhere_.

Water contains that easily. Blast water apart, and all you get is the same water. (Water shoving both of us against the wall, as his hands are occupied me with and neither of us is braced against anything otherwise.) His teeth glint in the darkness as he grins. “Nice try.”

He slams me against the wall faster than the water could, and I hear the snap of my arm more than I feel it. Not feeling a lot anymore except cold-and-pain, and it’s a bad sign that I’m losing localization details on new damage. I grit my teeth against making any response, and bounce another bundle of destruction right off him. If I keep trying, if I could get through just once--

\--it will not save me. And I may wake up by my Heart having forgotten all of this, my memory fading out somewhere around following Julie into the building, or even earlier. Pieces of my life lost to Trauma, eaten right out of my mind by the process of recovering from the kind of death humans never get to recover from at all, and I hate that more than the vessel loss, more than the fear of looking too weak to be useful any longer, more than anything else that goes with Trauma. It’s not that I’m so attached to this experience itself, which I might have avoided if I’d been more careful or faster or smarter or just better at my job, but it’s part of me. I lose so many parts of myself at the whim of other people. Memory’s all I get to keep.

Disturbance rolls past us, and it’s not my doing. Not _his_ doing, either. The Djinn’s fingers fall loose around me, and I scrabble backwards to cling to a strut. Cold and cutting against my hand, but some kind of security in the midst of the water.

“Just a minute,” Julie says. “Gotta deal with this guy.” Her voice is sweet and clear through the wind and rain, though I can’t see her.

“No problem,” I say, and cling as best I can. “Take your time.”

Her time turns out to be about a minute. I don’t know. It’s not like I’m counting exactly. And when she’s done, she wraps an arm around me. A tiny, dangerous figure at my side. “Can you hold on?”

“With that arm, sure.” Just because I can’t feel my fingers anymore doesn’t mean they don’t work.

“Hold on tight. But don’t worry, Lee. I won’t let you go.”

There is an access ladder, and she’s better at finding it than I was. Probably came down it. Climbing back up with a broken arm is not my idea of a good time, but I prefer that to the choice where I just tread water until I drown or the storm stops--whichever comes first--so up the ladder I go, one freezing metal rung at a time.

And on solid land again, I sit still, and cough up more water. Probably should be running. Not feeling up to it right now.

“I’ll get the car,” Julie says. “Don’t fall back in, okay?”

“What about your mark?”

“I got what I needed, and did some...damage control. It’ll be fine, don’t worry about _that_ , Lee, it’s not your problem. What’s broken?”

“Just the arm,” I tell her.

But when she brings the car around and I have to get inside, we work out that I fractured my ankle, too. Could be worse. Could be a lot worse.

In the car, I want to curl up in the back seat. Instead, I sit down ever so carefully in the front seat beside Julie, and watch her drive. She’s being cautious enough to annoy a few other drivers out on the road tonight.

“The Djinn was attuned to something,” I tell her. “Maybe the Shedite, if he was lining up that first shot for you. Otherwise, something the Shedite was carrying.”

“Probably something carried,” Julie says. She spares me a smile that’s meant to be reassuring, but looks a bit strained. “He’s not coming back to find it for days, at least, so don’t worry. We’ll get that dealt with before he’s out of Trauma. Sorry to leave you bleeding like that, but--I used up almost all my Essence, and I figure I should hang onto one. Just in case.”

“It’s fine. Been through worse plenty of times.” I want to close my eyes, and if I do I’m not sure when I’ll be willing to open them again. “Could you turn up the heat?”

“It’s all the way up.” Her fingers twitch on the steering wheel.

I wonder if she’s picked up the same pattern of beats from Chaixin as Chaixin and Zhune picked up, I think, from Valefor. Memetic transmission inside a Word, there are probably whole papers on that in Fate or Technology’s archives. I smile like my Prince, and his favorite people pick up mannerisms I never see, pass them on to their followers. (Am I as much a follower of Zhune as Julie is of Chaixin? A thought for another time.) There’s no way to belong to Theft and not start being a little bit like him. One way or another.

“Lee? You okay?”

I snap my eyes back open. “Yeah. I’m fine. Not like I can bleed out. I’ll have to apologize to Zabina for bleeding all over the rental, though.”

“She can suck it up. How are you feeling?”

“I’ve been worse.” I try to sit up and look like a competent, coherent demon who’s ready for emergency action. Not sure that’s working real well. “Sorry you had to do that. It turns out I’m not very good backup.”

“You were great.” At a red light, she turns to smile at me like she means it. “That wasn’t the first time I had to use Corporeal Charm on someone and hold them underwater until they stopped wiggling, either.”

“But you don’t like it. Even when they deserve it.”

Her expression doesn’t so much as flicker. “What makes you think that?”

“Never mind.” I shouldn’t have said anything, and I won’t say anything about it again. We all have our bad habits, the places where we don’t fit the ideal of our Band and Word. I’d rather people not poke at mine, and I won’t harass other people about theirs. “You’re sure the heat doesn’t go up any further?”

“Not without setting the car on fire. We’ll be back soon.”

The warmer the car gets, the more precisely I can catalog my current injuries, as numbness recedes and leaves actual pain in its wake. Not sure that’s an improvement. Self-knowledge is so seldom good for anything but creating more misery.

When we reach the hallway between the two doors of the apartments we’ve claimed, both of us still dripping on the floor, I have the sudden horrible thought that I’m expected to step in front of the Marquis and explain this. Just like that time after running into Tess. But instead Julie leads me into our apartment, and deposits me in the care of Trey, before running off to explain things to the Marquis herself.

It is strange and comforting to be the center of expressions of sympathy. Even if Zabina’s means of expressing sympathy is to call Guo away when he’s crowding me, and set him to fetching me clothes that are neither wet nor bloody nor shredded in ways I hadn’t noticed earlier.

“We ought to stop letting her take you outside if she keeps returning you like this,” Zabina says dryly, when Guo’s not in earshot. Trey says nothing, but his expression speaks of a certain level of agreement as he works on fixing my leg by means of my knife. (Also strange: a knife that cuts in and heals bone. It stings, but it works.)

“It wasn’t really her fault. If I’d put more thought into how to handle someone else showing, which I should’ve when the whole point of me coming was to watch her back--”

“You did fine,” Trey says.

“You weren’t there to see it.”

“You both came back alive,” Zabina says, as if that should put an end to the discussion. 

It does.


	37. An Interlude, In Which Very Little Happens

Yuliang and Lanthano had their argument quietly and out of sight of anyone else. No fighting in front of the kid, it would give him the wrong idea, and no fighting in front of Zabina--who would take it, not entirely inaccurately, as a statement of allegiance from Lanthano--and _definitely_ no arguing in front of Leo. They were clear on that point.

"You can't run him into danger like that," Lanthano said. "He's not the kind of Calabite who fights things. He's not as big as Chaixin by a long shot, and you can't treat him like he can provide that level of backup."

"She did just fine," Yuliang said. "And wasn't she the one running the show when the kid was stolen? Running into fights with angels? So she's not in the sturdiest vessel, and isn't so great with wrestling down Djinn. That doesn't make her a non-combatant, any more than _I_ can't fight just because it'll ruin a good pair of shoes."

"It's entirely different," Lanthano said. "Losing a vessel isn't anything like that--"

"--as if you would know."

Between some demons, there would have been things thrown by the end of the discussion. As they'd chosen a place to argue with few throwable objects, and weren't especially prone to violence on either side, they settled for making a few nasty personal remarks on each side until they came to an agreement again.

After that, implementation was easy. They had to wait for Leo to finish the latest proofreading pass, and to fret over organization one more time, and to clear the apartment--some people could be so fussy about who might be listening in--but then, well. It was simple enough to talk the Calabite into what they wanted, when they spoke on the matter together. He was amenable enough when options were presented to him the right way. Just one of the many reasons they wanted to keep him. Not everyone was so easy to work with.


	38. In Which I Always Leave Someone

I suppose I could have waited for Friday to hand in my report. But I have an email address for the Marquis, and I couldn't think of any good, defensible reason for not turning it in once I'd reached the limit of useful editing work.

So it's Thursday afternoon when I find myself standing in front of her again, having been summoned to the office an hour after I turned in my work. She might have been sitting here since the first day I arrived, the office and her posture unchanged throughout. (The memory of her walking into the other apartment is still slightly unreal.) When she gave me and Zhune an assignment, so many months ago, I knew she was angry. Here, all through this project, I've never been able to read her well.

I'm not as afraid of her as I used to be. Doesn't mean I'm not afraid.

She looks up from her monitors to me. My hand's on my wrist, behind my back, to keep myself from falling into military postures. They're not appropriate in Theft.

"Your report is good," she says. "Did you take any help on it from the others on it?"

I nod, and see that she wants more detail. "I asked Trey and Julie to check for clarity. Zabina helped me with organization and, uh, style." The Lilim's style preferences seemed too antiquated for me to give in to her advice entirely, but it probably doesn't hurt to sound more formal rather than less.

The Marquis nods, and I think I can take that as approval. It's the sort of organization where you're expected to play nicely with others, and I suppose that extends to asking them for help as well. "Would you like to stay?"

"I have a partner."

"That is not an answer to my question."

She's so much more terrifying than anyone in the other apartment. But in some ways, it's so much easier to say no. (If she really wanted me, she could take me. Zabina said as much. If she doesn't want a no, she doesn't have to accept it.) "I would like to go back to my partner."

I wonder if she believes that when I say it. No need to guess if Penny would.

"As you like," she says. (Oh, no. She doesn't believe. But we're demons, and we're always lying to each other. It's not so much as a social faux pas.) She leaves the desk to stand in front of me. We're nearly eye to eye in these vessels. "You were promised payment. Give me your hands."

She takes my left hand, and places a ring in my palm. Black stone, carved to look like a tangle of thorny vines. It pricks a drop of blood out of my hand from lying there, and I think it would do more than that if I put it on. "An artifact of little use to demons, though sorcerers would kill for it. Tell your partner that was the payment."

In my right hand, she places a pale cream business card. A phone number, an email address, a series of Chinese characters that I still can't read. "Destroy that," she says, "unless you want questions."

She holds both my wrists in her hands, and watches me steadily. As if it's my turn to speak. But I have nothing to say that I'm brave enough to say in front of her, and willing to let her hear.

"When you want to run," she says, "you know how to contact me. Now. Payment for services rendered." Essence hums out around us, a different timbre than I've ever heard before. Neither Song nor destruction, and strand of something I can't immediately identify hooks into my soul.

"A Rite of Industrial Espionage," she says. "No one but me can take that from you. So long as it remains, the offer does."

She waves me out of the office, and I'm glad to leave it.

#

I take the time to pack up everything I've been given. Clothing for both vessels back into the suitcase Zabina bought for me. Phone and laptop into the messenger bag. I line up the books along the top of the dresser in my room as if they're on a bookshelf, and then rearrange them to alphabetize fiction and non-fiction separately by author.

The watch and wallet I take off and lay out on the dresser beside a stack of spare tiny notebooks that arrived in the mail this morning.

"You're not taking anything," Trey says, from the doorway. It's not a question.

"I'm keeping the ID." Always needed to get one for this vessel anyway.

"You can keep all of it. It's not--work equipment, they're for you." He's angry, and trying not to sound it.

"It's good stuff, Trey. Someone should get some use out of it." I lay the library card on top of the stack of books I checked out. "Can you get these turned back in, or should I take them on the way out?"

"If you stayed--"

"I never pretended I would."

He leaves the room.

He's too much an Impudite to stomp away, or slam doors. But the open door he leaves behind him hurts more than a slammed one would have.

When I've packed everything away, I go to the fridge for a beer. The room's silent. No sign of Trey. Or Julie, or Guo. If I wait for Julie to come back from the errand she's on with the Shedite--

I'm not one for dragging things out. Clean and quick works best. Always did when I had to abandon someone.

"You should take an umbrella," Zabina says, her eyes on her laptop and fingers tapping at the keys. "The forecast calls for rain."

"I'll find myself a car." I fold the card Chaixin gave me into halves and quarters and eighths, and then resonate it into fine dust over the kitchen sink. It's not like I won't remember what it said.

Zabina stands up abruptly. Three quick steps to reach me, and she adjusts my collar. The way my coat hangs, the cuffs of my shirt sleeves, a strand of hair that's fallen out of place over my forehead.

"You're making the wrong decision," she tells me, "but that's a common affliction of the young. If you live long enough to correct it, the others will forgive you."

"Would you?"

"I don't hold bad habits against children," Zabina says. "It's more useful to move on and teach them good ones."

"It wouldn't help any to ask you to pass on my apologies to Lanthano, would it?"

"No," she says. "He'll manage. It's not the first time some pretty boy broke his heart." She puts a hand to my cheek. "Try not to die before you learn better, Leo. It would upset all three of them again, and two of them have had enough of that for the next few decades."

It doesn't start raining again until I've stolen a car, so I guess that's fine.

I turn the radio on loud enough to block out the sound of the rain, a classical station spinning out symphonies written by people who were born and lived and composed all their music and died as all humans did within a fraction of the time Zabina's been alive, and I drive south towards better weather.

#

Zhune doesn't catch up with me until I've spent most of a day in Portland. A night of getting drunk and falling over in a motel bed, all alone to stare at the ceiling until dawn came. A day of wandering the city, hands in my pockets and playing a game of Spot The Celestial with passersby. (When you don't expect any of them to actually be one, it's not bad entertainment. Trying to match body types to likely angels and demons, or figure out which seagulls are looking at you too intently.) The sun's falling over the ocean, and I've found a bar to start another round of drinking in.

He slides into the seat across from me. Looks as sharp as always, unbearably self-contained. I don't know what he even needs a partner for, some days. An audience? Or someone to blame when things go wrong. James Bond always had a Bond girl at hand, to look pretty and fall in love with him and die tragically. Bond never dies. He just switches actors.

"How was the job?" he asks, like he stepped out for an hour while I did some light shoplifting.

"Boring. I stared at a lot of blueprints and wrote a report."

"And?"

I shrug. I'm not drunk enough to feel ready for a real fight yet. Maybe in a few more bottles. "And every few days a babysitter took me out somewhere else to keep the dissonance condition happy, then I went back to working with computers. What about you? Get up to anything interesting while I was gone?"

"I kept myself busy," he says. He sprawls with an arm stretched across the back of the booth. Taking up more space than he needs to. Making a point, I guess, but it's wasted on me. It's not like I was expecting a _Welcome back_ or _Missed you_ or anything like that from him. "Did you get paid this time?"

"For once." I spin the ring across the table to him. "And a decent knife for the last job."

He snaps the ring up between thumb and forefinger before it's stopped spinning. "What an expensive piece of junk."

"Yeah, I get the impression the Marquis doesn't really _like_ you, Zhune."

He shrugs that off, as if the hostility of a Wordbound Marquis is entirely inconsequential to him. "At least you picked up some better clothing out of it," he says, and there's the start of the acid I've been waiting for. "Is this a new trend?"

"Are you kidding? I'm ditching this sweater as soon as I'm sober enough to steal a replacement." And I'm already regretting not doing that before he caught up with me. (I'm not regretting switching back to the female vessel, though. I'm only up for so many types of conflict at once. Even Regan believed in picking her battles.) "Do you have any new work lined up for us? I'm bored as hell."

"Not yet, seeing as you were gone indefinitely." He flags down a waiter, and orders me more beer, while I work on finishing off the one in front of me. I've had better, I've had worse. When I'm not waiting for him to catch up with me, I can demand a trip to a place with something more to my taste. "Is there anything you wanted to do with the free time, Leah?"

Take a trip to Dresden, and look at all the pretty buildings. "No," I say. "Didn't really have anything in mind."

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